


Needful Things

by rahleeyah



Category: City Homicide (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26817823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rahleeyah/pseuds/rahleeyah
Summary: An accident with her mobile forces Jen and Nick to confront the growing feelings between them. Posted for smutfic bingo, prompts are: sexting, getting messy in the kitchen, entering from behind, touching self while watching partner, and silk blindfold.
Relationships: Nick Buchanan/Jennifer Mapplethorpe
Comments: 11
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

_**Just let it go, Jen.** _

Of course that was his advice, Jen thought grumpily as she read the incoming text message from Nick. What else could she expect from _Nick,_ Nick who was so calm, so cool, so endlessly unruffled, Nick who took everything in his stride, with an easy grin and not even an ounce of ego? If the brass had swooped in and snatched his case right out of his hands and passed it off to Serious Crime because some politician had decided he wasn't the right man for the job, Nick would probably just smile and say _let them have it._ Jen, though, Jen was seething. It smelled like a coverup to her, and she hated the thought that they'd used her - relative - youth and the fact that she was a woman to insinuate that she wasn't up to the task. _Bastards._

Her mobile buzzed again; Jen sighed, and abandoned her efforts to style her hair as once more she read an incoming message.

_**It's Friday night. We're rostered off tomorrow. Just relax.** _

_I'm trying,_ she typed back, and then she once more set the mobile down, returned her hands to her hair. And she was, for once, actually trying. Lisa, one of Jen's old mates from Fraud, had set her up on a blind date with a solicitor from Collingwood. The account Lisa had given of the man was favorable, and the focus of his practice would not ever see him and Jen in the courtroom. And it had been a long, long time since Jen had last _tried,_ submitted to cocktails and small talk and wondered if maybe this time things would be different. There never seemed to be any time for dating, around the long hours she worked, but she'd found her gaze drifting towards Nick more and more in recent days, found herself recalling how comfortable they had been together in that little house they'd shared, found herself missing the security that came from having someone in her life who knew her, completely, and cared for her anyway. It wasn't _Nick_ she missed, she told herself. It was the connection they'd shared. And surely she could find that with someone else. Couldn't she?

At the moment she was standing in her bathroom in just her underthings, trying to arrange her hair just so. She wanted it up, to show off her neck and her earrings, to stop her fingers from winding anxiously through it if the date didn't go well. In a fit of almost juvenile optimism she had chosen her favorite lingerie to wear under her black dress; a pale lavender bra, all lace and satin ribbons, and a matching lavender lace thong. Jen wasn't much a one for lace, on a normal day, and she wasn't much a one for thongs, either, but the dress was tight, and she wanted to look her best. The dress called for a thong, and the color of this set went nicely with her hair, her pale skin; she quite liked the way she looked, like this, and she rather thought the solicitor might like it, too, if things went that far. If the date ended in disaster, it wouldn't be for lack of trying on her part.

Her mobile buzzed again, and she sighed, and finished pinning her hair in place before she reached for it.

 _ **Yeah?**_ Nick had written.

She could almost see him, his eyebrow quirked curiously, encouraging her to tell him what she was up to but not demanding more details than she was willing to give. Should she tell him that she was getting ready for a date? They were mates, after all; their woeful love lives were a not uncommon topic of discussion amongst the team. Matt was the only one with a steady partner, and the rest of them were drowning. Surely, she thought, it wasn't a big deal. Surely she could tell _Nick;_ she told Nick everything. But somehow, in that moment, she didn't want to tell him. If it was Duncan texting her after hours on a Friday she probably wouldn't have hesitated, but this was _Nick._ Nick who'd only been back on the squad a few months, Nick who already meant more to her now than he ever had before, steady, reliable, sweet-faced Nick who haunted her dreams. What would he say if she told him the truth? What would he think? What did it matter, really, when they were barred from being anything more than colleagues to one another?

Time was against her, and so Jen put aside the question of just how much she wanted to tell him, and focused on her hair. From the front it looked quite nice, but she needed to make sure the back was in order. She spun around, tried to peer over her shoulder to get a better look in the mirror, but the angles were all wrong. Still, though, she wouldn't be deterred; Jen had lived on her own for so long now that she'd come up with all sorts of inventive ways to solve pesky little problems like this on her own. She snatched up her mobile, turned on the camera, and pointed it over her shoulder. This way she could stand straight, back facing the mirror, take a picture, and then examine her hairstyle in the photo for herself. Simple. Easy.

Only it wasn't simple, or easy, for the second she took the picture she turned back around, and promptly lost her balance, her feet tangling in the damp towel pooled at her feet. The mobile slid from her grip, and with a little yelp of surprise she tried to rescue it, her fingers slipping against the screen until at last she caught it, held it against her chest and tried to catch her breath. That had been an embarrassingly close call; the last thing she needed was to shatter her mobile on the bathroom tile half an hour before a blind date. The mobile was the only way for her to contact the solicitor, and she'd been counting on its GPS to get her safely to and from the restaurant, and anyway, what if something happened at work, and someone needed to reach her? Modern life was almost terrifyingly dependent on those little mobiles, and she didn't need all the headaches that would come with a broken one.

Feeling marginally more steady she went back to work, intent on checking the picture she'd taken, checking to see that all was as it should have been with her hair.

Only her heart dropped and a sick feeling settled low in her belly; somehow, in the mad scramble to save her mobile from certain disaster, she had managed to send that picture to Nick. That picture of her pale back, of the satin band of the bra against her skin, of the scrap of lavender lace running across her hips, of her ass completely bare in the thong, had already been delivered to his mobile, and there was nothing she could do about it.

 _Shit, shit, shit,_ she thought. Of course her hair looked perfect, and that was a blessing, but what on earth would Nick think when he saw it? The last thing she'd said to him was that she was trying to relax, and when he'd asked her about it she hadn't answered. Only she _had_ answered, now. By sending him a picture of herself half-naked. What on earth was she supposed to do in this situation? Tell him it was an accident? There was no way he would believe that, she thought. She must have pressed three or four different buttons in her haste to rescue her mobile; what were the chances of her hitting all the right ones, in just the right order? Nick wasn't stupid, he'd smell something fishy. _Of all the clumsy, ridiculous, juvenile things to do-_

Her mobile buzzed again, and she read the message hardly breathing, mortified by the situation she'd found herself in.

 _ **I don't think you meant to send that to me**_ _,_ he said.

Bless him, she thought; of all the men she knew Nick was the only one who could respond to the unexpected vision of her naked ass gently, without teasing. That time Matt had discovered her in the bathroom years before he'd been awkward for days and then ham-handedly tried to ask her out on a date. Nick, though, Nick was respectful as ever. But did he think she'd meant to send it to someone else, that she was parading around in lacy lingerie on a Friday night for someone else's benefit? Technically she was, but she didn't like the thought of him knowing that.

 _I didn't mean to send it to anyone,_ she typed back with shaking fingers. _It was an accident._

Would he believe her? Somehow Jen had forgotten to be mindful of the time, forgotten that she needed to leave soon; all that mattered to her, just then, was the drama playing out with Nick. She wanted to salvage this moment, wanted to find some piece of reassurance for herself, wanted to know that they would still be all right come the morning, that they would still be mates, that this fiasco wouldn't ruin things between them. She couldn't let one momentary lapse in judgement spoil the good rapport they'd worked so hard for.

 _ **No worries**_ _,_ came Nick's answer, and she breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't pressing her for details, wasn't trying to push his luck, wasn't petulant or salacious in his answers. If it had to happen she supposed she ought to be grateful that it was only Nick who received that particular picture; if it had been anyone else, she imagined things would have turned out quite differently.

_**You look good, though.** _

That was a stroke of boldness she hadn't been expecting from him. She thought he'd just let it slide, step away from the hand grenade she'd just lobbed at him, however unintentionally, in the name of preserving their working relationship. He hadn't, though, and now she stood chewing nervously on her lip, wondering how she ought to respond.

It was, she thought, a very flattering picture. If she could manage it Jen went for a run through the park every morning before work, and she spent some time each week in the gym at the station. She kept herself fit, and she was pragmatic enough to admit that the results of her efforts were probably rather appealing. And her ass did look good, with the little scrap of lace around her hips. And she had styled her hair perfectly, so that it gathered in a mass of soft blonde curls at the back of her head. It was, actually, a very pretty picture, and apparently Nick appreciated it.

She didn't want to think about how much that thought pleased her. It had been four years since they'd lived together, dancing around one another, but in the time they'd spent together Nick had seen every inch of her, from every possible angle. Their initial awkwardness with one another had faded quickly, and by the end of the third month they were wandering back and forth from the bathroom in their underwear. By the end of the fourth month Jen was falling asleep each night with Nick warm at her back. By the end of the six month, they were shagging whenever the opportunity presented itself - in the backseat of the car, on Hartono's yacht, once, memorably, in the shower at their little house - and by the end of a year Jen had been certain she was in love with him. But the op had ended, and they'd gone their separate ways, and four long years had passed, and now it was all behind them. Had to be behind them. It didn't matter how much she might miss him, it didn't matter that sometimes when she saw him with his shirtsleeves rolled up at the end of a long day she wanted nothing more than to fold herself into his arms, it didn't matter that sometimes when he looked at her she got the sense that he wanted the same. It didn't matter, because they were on the same crew, and the rules were clear.

 _Thanks,_ she typed back, and then before she thought better of it she added, _I'm glad you liked it._

Oh, that was a stupid thing to do, she thought. It was stupid, cruel, even, to tease him, to tease them both, when what they wanted could never be. Jen left the bathroom behind and went to sit on the end of her bed, cradling her mobile in her hands, trying to calm the racing of her heart and find some way to get herself out of this mess. She should have tossed her mobile aside, put on her dress, and walked out the door. She should have ignored Nick, and left this tension to ease overnight. It wasn't as if she _had_ to answer him; she could just go and have a nice evening with the solicitor, and forget all about this. And come Monday she was certain that Nick would be pretending that it had never happened at all, that he would read in her silence her desire to forget the whole bloody thing.

Only she didn't want to forget, not really. She wanted to see what might happen next.

And what happened next was that her mobile buzzed, again.

_**I miss you.** _

If he had said almost anything else, that would have been the end of it. If he'd commented on her ass or told her he'd delete the picture or said _have a good weekend, see you Monday,_ Jen would have walked out the door and put the entire incident out of her mind. This, though, this was something else. This quiet acknowledgment of all that had gone before, these quiet words that so echoed her own thoughts, shook her down to her very core. It might have seemed silly, coming from anyone else; after all, it had only been a few hours since the last time they'd seen one another. Jen knew what he meant, though, because she missed him, too. She missed his arm heavy around her waist in the morning. She missed jogging through the park with him beside her. She missed his knee brushing hers at the dinner table, missed his smile around a lukewarm bottle of beer, missed the warmth of his bare chest beneath her palm, missed the way they used to talk, openly, honestly, about everything. They saw each other every day but it wasn't the _same;_ Jen knew exactly how good it could be, just _being_ with him, and she longed for it, desperately. The rules were clear, and she knew it wasn't allowed, but sitting there on her bed her heart began to ask the questions she had tried for so long to ignore. What if they were careful? What if no one found out? They'd made it this far without anyone realizing there was anything out of the ordinary between them, and they were both practiced liars. What if he'd been delivered once more into her life for a reason? Could she really stand to let him go?

 _I hate this,_ she typed back quickly. _I hate having to pretend like you're not special to me._

He _was_ special; he was everything to her.

 _ **We know the truth,**_ Nick answered. _**That has to be enough.**_

_It's not enough for me. I miss you, too._

Somehow it was easier to type the words sitting alone in her bedroom than it would have been to say them to his face. At least here no one was watching, at least this way no one could possibly overhear them. It was, she thought, the best opportunity they'd ever had to be honest with one another, and she didn't want it to end. She didn't want to leave this room, this moment, wanted to sit right there cradling her mobile, imagining him speaking those words to hear in his soft voice, imagining him beside her. If she were really brave, truly ready to throw caution to the wind, she could have slipped into her coat and driven straight to his house, and finished this conversation in person. But to do so would be to make it all real, somehow, to take a chance she wasn't yet sure she was willing to risk. This way was safer, but it hurt, too, because she could not see him, could not touch him, could not let him reassure her the way she needed him most.

_**Sometimes I think I'd do anything just to be able to touch you again.** _

Nick wasn't much of a talker, and there was very little romance or poetry in his speech. Over text, though, he could let his heart shine through, and Jen knew his was a heart full of passion, of devotion, of tenderness. The occasions when he let her see that part of him were rare, and precious, and she felt that this was one such moment. He had found his courage, and she wanted to do the same, wanted to step into this uncertainty with him, and watch as it all unfolded.

_Sometimes I think I'd let you._

She was playing with fire, and she knew it, but she couldn't seem to stop.

 _ **Now?**_ He asked. _**Like this?**_

What would it be like, she asked herself, if she opened the door and found him standing there, if she let him sweep her off her feet, carry her back to the bedroom, if she let him run his broad hands across the expanse of her bare skin, let him press gentle kisses to the crook of her neck? A shiver ran through her at the very thought; she knew already how it felt when he touched her, kissed her, loved her, and heat settled low in her belly at the memory of his hands against her. Would she let him in, if he came to her now? Would she let him touch her? The answer came to her at once; she wouldn't just let him, she'd beg him for it, and enjoy every second.

 _Yes,_ she told him.

_**Christ, Jen. I can't do this knowing you're standing there dressed like that. I can't get that picture out of my head.** _

_I'm not standing any more,_ she typed back quickly. _I'm in bed._

Jen was not a fool. The world had changed rather a lot since she'd first been young and experimenting with boys, but she knew how things worked, now. A mobile in hand, a soft bed at her back, and Nick on the other side of town staring at a picture of her in nothing but her lacy underwear; if they kept this up, things would likely only go in one inevitable direction. And while Jen had never done any such thing herself, never even wanted to, in the moment she was excited, and terrified, and missing him, and the potential for both pleasure and embarrassment inherent in undertaking this particular activity had set her desire rocketing to new heights. She wanted to know what he might say, knowing she was lying in bed, talking to him. She wanted to know what he was doing, on the other end of the phone, wanted to know if he was in bed, too, assailed by thoughts of her, wanting, just as she was. The instant she typed the word _bed_ the entire timbre of the conversation had changed, and yet she had done so deliberately, eagerly. At least this way, she thought, they might find some relief. At least this way they could face the swirling tide of need that flowed between them without actually taking the plunge, without actually risking both their careers. It was, she thought, the only way he could be close to her just now when everything was so confusing.

It took longer for Nick's answer to come in this time, as if he were thinking his way feverishly through the problem at hand, trying to choose the best way to answer her. That was the thing about Nick; he never did anything halfway, and he always looked before he leaped.

_**You're lying in bed, half naked, and thinking of me?** _

_Yes._

_**What do you want, Jen?** _

That was the only question that mattered, wasn't it? If she could only work out what she wanted, she knew he'd give it to her. But he would not railroad her into something she wasn't ready for, wouldn't leap ahead blindly. Nick had always waited for her to decide, and now would be no different.

 _I want you to touch me,_ she typed back. Giving up all pretense of ever leaving that room Jen shuffled back on the bed, nestled her head amongst her pillows, set her mobile on the bare skin of her belly, and closed her eyes. What would he do, if he were here with her? What would she want him to do? To settle between her thighs, his bulk heavy against the softness of her, to kiss her, the way he used to do. To run his hands -

Her mobile buzzed again and she swept it up at once.

_**I want that** _ **.** _**I want to feel you.** _

_How?_

_**I want you under me. I want my hands on your hips. I want to kiss you. I want to taste you.** _

Jen shivered and took a moment to set her own hands on her hips, run them up the length of her sides, her eyes closed, imaging Nick instead, imagining him heavy above her, imagining his palms against her skin.

 _ **I want to feel that lace under my palm**_ \- with one hand she held her mobile, and with the other she reached for her own breast, her touch gentle, as his would have been, and sighed. _**I want to hear the sounds you make when I touch you.**_

Carefully Jen pulled aside the cup of her bra, ran her fingertips around her nipple and felt the electricity sparking through her veins at the memory of his hands against her, instead of her own.

_**What are you doing, Jen?** _

She held all the cards now, she knew. She could change her mind, sit up, tell him this was crazy, and put an end to it, right now. Or she could tell him the truth, and let them both burn alive beneath their need for another. To actually type out the words, to so boldly declare what she had done, what she was thinking about doing, on account of him, would be to take them both into dangerous territory. With anyone else she would have been too mortified to confess to the truth, but this was _Nick_ , and she knew she could trust him with all of herself, with her very life. And so she told him the truth.

_I'm touching myself and wishing it was you._

Was that too much? She wondered. Nick wasn't really the kind of man who went in for this sort of thing, maybe he'd think it was juvenile, or desperate, maybe he'd tell her to stop -

_**Take off your bra** _

_Done,_ she answered the moment the scrap of lace drifted to the floor.

_**I wish I could see you like that** _

Jen smiled. _In for a penny, in for a pound,_ she thought, and lifted the mobile above her. She tried to arrange herself just so, lifted her chin, arched her back, and snapped a picture before she could think better of it. For a moment she considered that picture, the soft swells of her breasts perhaps not as big as she might have wished when she was younger, the hard furled buds of her nipples, the mess of her hair against the pillowcase, slowly slipping out of its pins. What would he think, if he could see her like that? What would he do? Was it foolish, to send him such a picture? In the world she lived in Jen knew very well how dangerous it could be to do such a thing, knew how many women suffered after trusting a man with something so personal. But Nick wasn't just any man; Nick was everything to her, and she desperately wanted to see what he'd do next. And so without any further hesitation she texted the picture to him. He hadn't been asking for it, she knew, would never have expected such a thing from her, but she liked the thought that she could still surprise him, and she liked the thought of his desire ratcheting up to new heights when he saw it. It wasn't fair, for her to be the only one lonely and wanting. She wanted him to ache, too.

 _ **You look so beautiful,**_ he told her. Only Nick could be sweet in a moment like this, she thought. Only Nick could receive a picture like that and respond so gently. There was no crudeness in him; crass, forceful words of longing did not ever leave his lips. Although, she thought, there would be something exciting about it if they ever did, something terribly thrilling about knowing she had been the one to push him far enough, to inflame his desire enough, to make him lose his head entirely.

 _What are you doing,_ she asked him next. She could have thanked him for his kindness, told him how she longed to see him, too, asked him anything, but what she really wanted to know, more than anything else, was how this little back and forth between them was affecting him. She wanted to know where he was, if he was lying in bed, as she was, wanted to know where his hands were, whether he was touching himself, too, wanted to know if his cock was slowly growing hard with want of her, in time to the rising tide of wet hot want that swirled through her own body.

While she waited for his answer she once more closed her eyes and let her hands wander, plucked at her own nipples and drew a soft whine from her own lips as she imagined Nick's hands instead. Nick's hands, bigger, stronger than her own, relearning territory they had not explored for so long; _Christ_ , she wanted him. Wanted him to hold her, wanted him to touch her, wanted him to love her, regulations be damned.

Before she could get too lost in her thoughts he was responding, and she once more opened her eyes, anxious to see what he'd written.

He hadn't written anything at all, as it happened; he'd sent a picture of his own, and Jen couldn't help the gasp that escaped her as she saw it. The room he was in was dark, shadows cast along the background, drawing her attention right to the center of the photograph. There was the shape of his leg, strong and bare, stretched out on a bed, but she took no notice of the leg, or the bed; all she saw was what he had intended her to see. His cock, hard already, his hand wrapped around the base of his shaft. She'd asked and he had answered; she knew, now, exactly what he was doing, and though coming from anyone else she would have thought such a picture lewd, would have laughed or cursed or looked away at once, knowing that this was _Nick's_ cock left her breathing shallow, left her hardly blinking as she looked at it. It wasn't the first time she'd seen it, of course, but it had been so long, and seeing it now…

She had thought that she remembered him well, but remembering and seeing were two very different things. In that picture she could see him, thick and long and hard with want of her, could see his hand, the line of his thigh; he had communicated his need to her so effectively that even as she looked at him she slid her free hand down her body and beneath the lace of her thong at once. Ordinarily if she were to lose herself in pleasure like this she would have closed her eyes and imagined all sorts of things, but as it was she kept her eyes open, and focused on the sight of Nick's cock. Slowly she dragged her fingertips through her own wetness, imagined the head of his cock surging between her swollen folds, imagined the heat and the hardness of him beneath her, around her. Though Jen had enjoyed the pleasure and the company of several men throughout her life Nick outpaced them all, as far as she was concerned, not just because of the size of his cock but because of _him,_ because of the way he focused all of himself on her, every time, whether they were fast and feverish, desperately trying to avoid detection by SIS, whether they were slow and relieved to have the chance to relax unobserved. He was, always, attentive to her, and she remembered the way he filled her, the look in his eyes when he -

 _ **Is that ok**_ , the new message said, briefly blocking out the vision of Nick's cock and drawing Jen back into the moment. She hadn't answered him, she realized, and he must have been worried that he'd overstepped the mark, worried that he'd gone too far and she had decided to put an end to their little game. Nothing could have been further from the truth; that picture had left her dangerously close to losing all control.

 _Better than ok,_ she typed back. _I want you._

There were other things she could have said, filthy, incendiary words she could have sent him, but it didn't feel right, somehow, to just spout off lines from a bad porno when the truth was that what she felt, in that moment, was so much more than a simple base need. It was _Nick_ she needed, not just a good hard fuck, not just a momentary release. It was _Nick_ she wanted, his arms around her, the sense of security, of peace she only found when she was with him. She wanted _him._

 _ **How**_ _**do you want me?**_ He asked her next. Before she could come up with a coherent response he sent a second message through; _**tell me what you're doing.**_

Somewhere on the other side of the city Nick was lying in bed naked with his hand on his cock, probably stroking himself to the thought of her, and the truth was that at that very moment Jen was lying on her bed mostly naked with a hand in her knickers, thinking of him. Despite the distance between them and the cold bulk of her mobile in her hand she felt connected to him, somehow, felt almost as if they were in the same room, doing this thing together. And if they were going to do this thing, Jen was determined to do it properly.

Moving quickly, then, she stripped out of her knickers and rolled onto her belly, setting her mobile down on the pillow next to her face. Once more her left hand slipped down her bed, heading for the aching wetness between her thighs, and once more her right hand reached for the mobile. It was easier this way, she thought; she could read Nick's messages without having to stop what she was doing, could thrust down against her hand and imagine it was his cock instead. Yes, she thought as once more her fingertips slipped through sparse curls, teasing against her clit, this was _much_ better.

 _I'm naked,_ she told him, typing with her right hand while still her left played against her eager sex. _And I'm lying on my belly. I've got my hand between my legs, and I'm thinking about that time in Sydney._

Near the end of the SIS operation they had gone on a business trip to Sydney, and wound up staying in a home owned by Hartono. There hadn't been time for the spooks to bug the place, so while Jen and Nick - Trish and Wesley, then - had been scared out of their minds, they had also been mercifully unobserved. They had known, even then, that the end was near, had locked the door of the guest bedroom they were using and lay down on the bed wondering if Hartono was planning to do away with them that very night. For hours they'd both been wide awake, staring at the ceiling, talking quietly about what might happen next, what they'd do if Hartono did intend to strike against them, but as the night wore on no assault had come, and the conversation had turned to other things. What they were most excited to do, once they were back in their own lives. How strange it would be, to fall asleep without one another. As dawn broke Nick had rolled her beneath him, and taken her slowly, deeply from behind while she arched against his chest and tried to muffle the sound of her desperate whimpers. Nothing in all her life had ever felt as good as that, Nick's cock heavy inside her, his voice soft in her ear, promising her that he would find her again, that he would never let her go. Just thinking about it was nearly enough to undo her; she ground her hips against her hand and let her middle finger slide slowly into her own wet heat, and groaned at the sensation.

 _ **Use both hands,**_ his next message said. _**I want you to slide two fingers inside, and I want you to think about me when you do. And I want you to rub your clit, and imagine it's me.**_

Jen laughed, breathless; she'd never heard him say the word _clit_ before, not once in all the time they'd spent together, but there really wasn't any other way for him to tell her what he wanted, and she liked it, anyway, liked the thought of him sitting there with his hand on his cock and still thinking about her pleasure first. She did just as he asked, and her laugh turned into a groan as she stretched around her own fingers, as she slid her free hand down her body to vibrate her fingertips furiously against herself in the rhythm she knew would have her seeing stars in a moment. She closed her eyes, just for a moment, imagined Nick on his knees behind her, his arms wrapped around her, imagined she could feel his cock - which she could now recall in glorious detail, thanks to the picture he'd sent her - sliding between her legs, imagined the heat of him, the hardness of him, imagined the sound he'd make when he found her hot and wet for him, imagined -

The phone vibrated again, and Jen's eyes flew open. The screen hadn't gone dark yet, and she didn't even have to touch it to see the message he'd written. If he typed fast enough he could walk her through it without her having to touch the phone at all.

 _ **I wish I could see you,**_ he said. Then another message, hot on the heels of the first, _**I wish I could see you stretched out on your stomach, fucking your hand for me.**_

A whimper escaped her, and her hips began to move, rocking against her hands, need building, building, coiling tighter and tighter, and -

_**Slide another finger in and imagine it's my cock.** _

Three was a bit much; Jen hardly ever bothered, when she was on her own. She knew enough about her body, knew how to find her pleasure with the least amount of effort, but she did what he'd asked, felt herself stretch around her own fingers, imagined the thick heat of his cock there instead, and _oh,_ that was really doing it for her.

 _ **I want to hear the sounds you make,**_ he told her then. _**Don't be quiet.**_

Jen let herself go, then. Let the moans and the whimpers come flooding out of her, heard the sound of her own voice, desperate, needy, thought of him, thought of what she was doing, because of him, thought of how much she'd rather he was here, with her, and then let the rocking of her hips and the slide of her fingers and the thought of _him_ carry her away.

_**Will you come for me, Jen?** _

"Yes," she gasped aloud, but before she could even register her own foolishness - it wasn't as if he could hear her, anyway - she broke, shattered around her own hand, pulsing wet and needy and trembling from head to foot with the strain of it. Her heart raced in her chest and stars exploded behind her eyelids, her hips ground down against her hand, chasing this feeling; _more more more,_ the thought swirled through her mind; _oh,_ this was good, but it would have been better, if only he were there with her.

After a moment she caught her breath, kept her left hand sandwiched between her body and the mattress and reached for the phone with her right.

 _I did,_ she typed.

 _ **Good,**_ came his answer. Jen stared at that word for a moment, breathless. Had _he_ finished, thinking of her like that? Or was he still hard and wanting, still holding his cock in his hand, still waiting for more? She hoped he was, hoped that now she might have the chance to do for him what he'd done for her.

 _Will you come for me, Nick?_ She asked him.

_**If you want me to.** _

_I want your cock in my mouth,_ she typed before she could stop herself. If they'd been together, properly together, she never would have said such a thing; she would have just done it. But separated like this, close and yet so far from one another, she knew she'd have to make do another way. When he closed his eyes did he see her, the way she'd seen him? Did it drive him mad with longing? What was he doing now, how was he touching himself? Jen had no doubt that Nick was as well versed in his body as she was in her own; surely he'd know just what to do, to bring himself the relief he sought. During the time they'd spent together Jen had learned so much about him, had learned the weight and the heat of him in her hand, learned the way the timbre of his groans changed when he was _close,_ learned the way he shuddered when she ran her tongue along the length of him and now she wanted, desperately wanted, to do it again.

Relief and release and remembering had made her loose, left her more willing to say precisely what she was thinking, and so she didn't let shame slow the words as they came spilling out of her.

 _Imagine me on my knees in front of you,_ she told him. _Imagine my hand on your cock._ What else? _Remember that time in the car?_ She'd changed tactics on him, suddenly reminded of the night she'd knelt on the passenger's seat of their rented car and wrapped her lips around the weeping head of his cock. That night, that was the first time she'd ever taken him in her mouth, and she'd set to it with a will, had licked a stripe from the base of his shaft up to the very tip of him, dragged him into her mouth and swirled her tongue round and round the head of his cock. He'd tangled his hands in her hair, had sworn as she took him in further, and further, her mouth and her hand working over him until he'd groaned, and she'd pulled back at the last second and let him spill against her hand.

 _ **Fuck, Jen**_ , he managed to type, and she grinned, and carried on.

_I'll keep my hand on you while I suck you into my mouth. I want to feel you come apart for me, Nick._

Other things she could have said popped into her head, but she quickly dismissed them. She didn't want to lie to him, or to say something just to say it; she wanted to tell him the truth. And the truth was she hated the mess of it, and would have objected if he'd tried to spill himself anywhere near her face, and the truth was he knew that, and would have known she was being disingenuous if she'd suggested a thing. It was the knowing that made the whole thing more erotic, somehow, more real, more like something that might actually happen between them. Knowing already what he sounded like, what he felt like in her mouth, knowing already the warmth of him beneath her, above her, knowing already how _good_ it felt just to be with him, that was what made her ache. Maybe that did it for him, too. For a moment she simply lay on her belly, exhausted and relieved, staring at her phone. If he needed more, he'd tell her. If she'd done enough, he'd tell her that, too. All that was left was to wait, and see what had become of him, to imagine, for a moment, the way he would look, rocking his hips, his cock sliding through his own fist, the tendons in his neck taut with yearning, his voice low and needy. The thought of his powerful body lost in pleasure like that was nearly enough to make Jen reach for herself once more, but she waited, eager to see what Nick had to say for himself.

_**Christ, Jen. That was good.** _

_Did you come?_

_**Gonna have to change the sheets.** _

Jen laughed; _poor bugger,_ she thought. He had then, come undone, because of her, because of the thought of them together, and he'd been so lost in his pleasure he hadn't paid attention, and spilled himself across his own sheets. Let him have the mess, Jen thought; she was quite glad she didn't have the same problem. Only now she was alone, and her body had cooled, and there was a chill in the room settling into her bones, and Nick was so far away from her. Only now they'd done this thing, and Jen didn't know what came next. How was she supposed to face him, come Monday, knowing what they'd both done, for each other, because of each other? How was she supposed to go on pretending she didn't want him, didn't miss him, didn't love him? How were they going to -

_**Jen? You all right?** _

She hadn't answered him yet, and he'd no doubt been unnerved by her silence. Given what had just happened between them, she could hardly blame him.

_I was just wondering what happens next._

_**I think we need to talk.** _

He was right, and she knew it. Ignoring what had just happened would never work; there was no going back from this. But what was she supposed to do? Call him on the phone? Wait for him to come into the office on Monday and drag him into the Ladies' for a private chat before work?

_Can you come over?_

_**I'll be there in twenty minutes.** _

Jen sighed, and slid out of bed. Maybe it was reckless, to invite him over, after everything. Maybe she was still just keyed up and needy. Maybe she'd regret it, come the morning. Somehow she didn't think so, though. Somehow she felt this was exactly what they needed. Something had to give; they couldn't carry on pretending to be strangers indefinitely, and now that she knew his yearning for her matched her own longing for him, perhaps the time had come to do something about it.

Slowly she hung her dress up in the closet, and reached for her favorite floral robe. She fired off a text message to the solicitor, telling him she'd fallen ill and wouldn't be able to make their dinner date. And then she went to start the kettle, thinking of Nick, who was at that very moment driving across town, on his way back to her.


	2. Chapter 2

He didn't feel nervous, as such. Talking to Jen was never an anxiety-inducing experience; they'd been working together quite well for months now, and they had worked together _very_ well for the year and more they'd been undercover. He knew her, as well as he knew anyone else, and he trusted her, more than he trusted anyone else. They understood one another, and conversation seemed to come easily to them.

Only this wasn't just any conversation. Not after what they'd just done, the way they'd slipped their fingers into the cracks of the wall of professionalism that separated them and torn the bloody thing wide open. The pictures she'd sent to him were burned into his memory; he had never forgotten the sight of her, naked and soft beneath him, never forgotten the sound of her breathy cries as she lost herself in pleasure, but he had buried those little pieces of their shared past, refused to draw them out into the light. Until now, until this, until he'd found himself lying in his bed, naked and wanting her, spilling out all his desires and all his secret hopes until they'd both come undone. Well, he'd come undone. She'd told him that she had, and he didn't think she would lie about that sort of thing, but he had not witnessed it for himself, and he regretted that, now. _We should have been together,_ he thought as he pulled his car to a stop in front of her house, as he looked up at the soft glow of the lights spilling out from her windows. It would have been better, he thought, if they could have been together for this first foray into madness, if he could have touched her himself, but he was wondering, now, if this was the only way it ever could have happened. If the only way they'd ever come back to one another was if they were pushed, by forces beyond their control, by a mishap with a telephone and the relative safety of a text message instead of the unbearable pressure of facing one another.

They had to face one another now, though. Maybe they could have put it behind them, pretended it never happened, but Nick didn't want to pretend, any more, and Jen had asked for him and he had raced across town as fast as he could go, desperate to see her. Something had been started tonight that could not be left to fester another moment longer. He needed to see what might happen next.

And so he took one long, slow breath, and then stepped out of his car, walked up the pavement to her house and knocked upon the door. It wasn't so very late; the sun had long since sunk below the horizon but the world was not asleep just yet. It was a Friday night, and all around them the city celebrated the onset of the weekend. Maybe they could do the same, he thought; neither of them had to go into work again until Monday - barring catastrophe - and that meant they finally had _time,_ finally had a chance to sit together, and speak to one another honestly, to say -

To say what? He'd told her already that he missed her, and she'd told him already how she hated the separation between them, the lies and the hiding. What else was there, really? So long as they worked on the same crew a romantic entanglement was ill advised, as it could well spell the end of one or both of their careers. They both cared too much about their jobs to just throw them away, but what if -

The door swung open, and there she was, Jennifer, and beautiful, and he could not help the smile that split his face at the sight of her. She was lovely, with her soft blonde hair framing her sweet face, wearing a bright, floral patterned robe that showed off an admirable swath of her perfect legs. And when she saw him Jen smiled, too.

"Come in," she said, stepping back to allow him entrance, and Nick stepped into her home at once.

It wasn't the first time he'd been there, of course. He'd picked her up from work at home a few times, and they'd had a little party in her back garden at the beginning of the summer, the team all gathered together, drinking beers and laughing. It was the first time he'd ever been there like this, though, the first time he'd ever arrived late in the evening, found her wearing her robe and precious little else, come to her with the express purpose of discussing the nebulous _something_ that bubbled and swirled between them.

"Are you hungry?" she asked him softly. "I haven't had dinner yet."

"I could eat," Nick allowed easily. He always wanted to eat, after; she used to tease him about that. Jen's eyes sparkled up at him mischievously and he wondered if she was remembering that, too. He hoped so, at least.

"Come on, then," she said, and he followed behind her silently as she led him down the short corridor from her front door to her kitchen. There were pots bubbling away on the stove and two places already set at her table, and as he watched she danced across the room to the refrigerator, and pulled out a bottle of wine. He couldn't tell what it was from this distance, but he was certain it would be white and sweet and cheap. He remembered that, too.

"Smells good," he said. It did smell good, whatever she was cooking, but what he'd wanted to say was _you look good_ ; what he wanted was to take her in his arms and kiss her until both their heads were reeling, but he'd come over here to talk, and he meant to do that before anything else. It might be that she wanted to talk to him about how what happened tonight could never be allowed to happen again, and he'd look like the worst sort of bastard if he tried to kiss her before he let her get those words out. Whatever she wanted of him, he wanted to give it to her, even if what she wanted was to declare outright that they could never been more than coworkers. Nick wouldn't force himself where he wasn't wanted.

Across the kitchen Jen flashed a smile at him as she poured two glasses of wine.

"It's just noodles," she said, but Nick reckoned it was rather more than that, given there were two pots on the stove. Jen wasn't much of a cook - neither was he, truth be told - but they'd spent a lot of time in the kitchen of their borrowed house, and he'd tasted every single one of the recipes in her limited repertoire. He was certain that when the cooking was done she'd bring him a bowl full of pasta and veg in that lemon sauce she poured over everything. That was fine by him; it was one of his favorites.

Jen approached him slowly, shyly, and offered him a glass, which he took at once.

"Cheers," she said, clinking the rims of their glasses together.

"Cheers," he answered, holding her gaze as they both took a sip. It wasn't awkward, exactly, standing in the middle of her kitchen drinking her shitty wine, but he felt a strange sense of expectation creeping up his spine. He hadn't come here for noodles and wine, and she knew it, and the conversation that waited for them was one of the most important they would ever have. He was eager to be done with it, but he rather got the sense Jen was putting it off, and he liked that not one bit.

"Jen-"

"Sit down, Nick. I'll bring the food over and then we can talk while we eat."

 _Fair enough,_ he thought, and so he did not protest, only settled himself at the table and drank his wine while he watched her put the finishing touches on dinner. Quiet settled over them, and he found himself wondering what she was thinking, what she meant to say to him. If she'd wanted to put all this behind them then surely, he thought, she wouldn't have offered to feed him, to give him an excuse to linger. _Unless she wants you to try to talk her out of it,_ he thought. Jen was a thoroughly practical sort of girl, not much given to flights of fancy or romantic notions, and surely she'd think her job was more important than some man, but maybe she wanted -

"Here we are," she said, carrying a steaming bowl of food towards the table. Carefully she filled both their plates, and then she settled into the chair across from him.

"Smells good," he said again. He was running out of safe comments to make; his heart was bursting with words that were decidedly dangerous, and he didn't want to upset her, didn't want to give her a reason to throw him out before they'd ever even decided anything.

Across the table Jen sighed, and ran her finger tip around the base of her wine glass, refusing to look at him.

"So," he said slowly. She'd said they could talk while they ate, and now that the food was in front of them, he supposed the time had come. It had been his idea, the talking; he had been lying alone in his bed on the other side of town, missing her, wondering if he'd just ruined everything between them, or if maybe they finally had a chance, here, to do something right. He hoped they did; he'd meant every word he'd sent to her, meant it when he told her that he missed her, that he wanted to touch her, that he thought she was beautiful, and none of that was allowed, so long as they were only colleagues. But how was he supposed to tell her the truth? To tell her that he was tired of dancing around her, tired of pretending? She'd told him she was tired, too, but a quiet confession in a text message while they were miles apart was not the same as sitting together at the same table, looking one another in the eye as they admitted to the feelings that sparked and swirled between them. Maybe it was a mistake, to come chasing after her like this, but she'd invited him and made him dinner and sent him a picture of her bare breasts quite on purpose, and he rather thought all of that together pointed to a favorable outcome for him. "About before. I...I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, Jen."

"You didn't," she told him, still refusing to meet his gaze, though there was a little smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She had been a willing participant, he knew, but that was then, and this was...something else.

"It's hard to keep my distance, sometimes. But I will if you want me to."

That little smile turned into a frown, and Jen lifted her gaze, finally looking at him. He could see the confusion in her, could see her torn, as he was, between what she _ought_ to do, and what she _wanted_ to do.

"I meant what I said. I'm tired of pretending you aren't special to me. But I don't know what to do," she told him miserably. "What happened tonight was... I've never done anything like that before. But I wanted to, with you."

"It's the same for me," he said. She needed to know that, he thought, that he didn't just go around sending pictures of his cock to every woman he knew, that he never would have written those words, dreamed of such things, with anyone other than Jen. It wasn't a moment's pleasure he wanted; it was _her._

"But I want Homicide. I want my job. I don't want to risk it for something…"

She trailed off, and Nick frowned.

"Something that's not worth it?" he asked her softly. His heart clenched unpleasantly in his chest at the thought that perhaps Jen loved Homicide more than him, that perhaps she didn't think _he_ was worth the risk.

There was grief in her eyes when she looked at him, and strangely, that reassured him.

"If anything's worth the risk it's you," she said. "But what happens when this falls apart? What will we do? I can't lose Homicide, Nick. I can't throw my career away."

" _If_ this falls apart," he said, stressing that word _if,_ for he refused to believe that their falling out with one another was inevitable. He'd been half in love with her from the moment they met, and there was something so...easy, so good about them together, something he'd never found with anyone else, something that made him think that maybe this was it, for him. That all he'd want, all he'd need, for the rest of his life, was her. "I'll leave Homicide. You can keep it, I won't take it away from you."

"I can't ask you to do that for me," she said, twirling her fork idly through her noodles.

"You're not asking. I'm offering. I've left Homicide before, and I was perfectly happy. Honestly, Jen, I'll be fine no matter what I'm doing for work. I don't think I'll be fine if I never get to kiss you again."

Her cheeks went a little pink, and inwardly he breathed a sigh of relief. He'd worried, for the split second after he spoke, that perhaps he'd said too much, but now he got the sense he'd said exactly what was needed.

"So..what? We just...date? And don't tell anybody?"

Nick tried to picture it, going to the cinema with Jen, taking her out to a nice restaurant, her voice cheering him on from the sidelines of his bi-monthly rugby match, but mostly what he saw, when he thought of them together, was this. Sitting in a kitchen - hers or his, it made no difference - talking, eating, comfortable with one another. Sharing their lives, not just spending the odd hour together here and there and then retreating to their separate spaces. He didn't want a girlfriend, to trot out for parties and try to get to know over cocktails. He wanted a _partner,_ and Jen was that for him already. Sleeping next to her, holding her hand in the shops, washing the dishes side-by-side with her at the kitchen sink, he'd done all of that before, and that was what he wanted now, more than anything.

"There's plenty we're not telling them already," he said around a mouthful of his dinner. It was exactly the dish he'd thought she was making, and it was as good as he remembered. "We can keep home at home, and work at work. I think it'll be fine."

For a moment she was quiet, watching him, and then she sighed.

"All right, then."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," she agreed, and just like that they slid from friends to something more. A bargain had been struck, with those few simple words. Something like that should have felt monumental, he thought, like the plates of the earth shifting beneath their feet, but instead it just felt like the quiet opening of a door. _What do we do now?_ He asked himself. Should he just abandon his dinner, go to her, gather her into his arms and carry her back to bed? Would she even accept such behavior from him, or would he need to woo her slowly, gently, take his time and not expect her to just fall into his arms after a few randy text messages? Whatever happened next, Nick keenly felt the importance of getting it right, and so he took another bite, and waited to see what she might do.

What she did was laugh, a bit uncomfortably, and drink down the rest of her wine in one go.

"Is it just me or is this awkward?" she asked. "I feel like I just flashed my tits at you and asked you to go steady."

"For what it's worth you can flash your tits at me any time." It was half a joke, and she laughed a bit more easily, and Nick breathed a silent sigh of relief. "I just...I care about you, Jen. And I just want to be with you." And he wanted, very much, to kiss her, but she had been hungry when they sat down together, and he didn't want to interrupt their dinner. Not yet, at any rate.

"I care about you, too, you know," she told him softly, shyly. "I wouldn't have done...that, if I didn't."

"Was it really an accident? That first picture?"

That was what he really wanted to know. Nick had never accidentally sent a message to the wrong person, let alone a picture of himself half-naked. He knew Jen wasn't in the habit of lying to him, but he still didn't quite understand how something like that could happen unintentionally. Not to say he wasn't grateful for it, and more grateful still that she had sent it to _him_ , and not say Duncan or Matt. He didn't like the thought of either of them seeing her like that, half-naked and beautiful.

"It was!" she protested, laughing to let him know she wasn't offended. "I was just trying to make sure my hair looked all right, and then I dropped my phone, and when I tried to catch it…" she made a vague gesture with her hands, simulating her fumbling with the mobile.

"Why were you worried about your hair?"

Jen's face fell, and Nick's heart fell with it. The question had been mostly intended as a gentle sort of tease, pointing out that it was silly to be worried about her hair on a Friday night when she didn't have any plans - and obviously she didn't, he thought, given what they'd done together, given that she was sitting at her table with him in just her robe - but now he began to wonder if perhaps there was more to the story.

And as it turned out, there was.

"I had a date," she confessed. "Lisa set me up with someone. I was supposed to have dinner with him."

So Jen had been wearing that pretty lace and styling her hair for someone else. She hadn't gone on the date, of course, and the man had never seen the results of her efforts while Nick himself had enjoyed them immensely, and so he didn't feel so much jealous as he felt relieved. For the third time it seemed to him that fate had intervened in their lives, stepped in at just the right moment and made sure that they found their way to one another. The opportunity to work with SIS, that night in Matt's kitchen, and now this, one wayward text message, had changed everything. If it weren't for the slip up with the mobile, Nick would be alone at this very moment, and Jen would be doing God only knew what with someone else. Nick didn't believe in God, not really, but he was starting to believe that some things were meant to be, and that Jen was one of them.

"I'm glad you're having dinner with me instead," Nick told her gently.

"Me, too," she said, smiling.

* * *

The talking was a little easier, after that. She asked about his family - while they were undercover he'd let it slip that he had sisters, and she'd never forgotten, and he loved her for it - and they talked a little about her case, the case the brass had snatched away from her and left her feeling miserable over. They talked about Dunny - they were both worried about him, still on his own, still mourning for Clare - and they talked about Si - they were both worried about his temper - and they ate, and it was...nice. Unbelievably nice. Incredibly nice, to share a meal with her, and just enjoy one another's company.

But the noodles and the wine couldn't last forever; dinner was winding down, and an uneasy sense of expectation seemed to hover in the air. The table was safe; sitting together at the table, even if Jen was only wearing her robe and Nick was in a t-shirt and jeans instead of his usual suit, was still very much the sort of thing friends did. Only they'd just decided that maybe they could be more than friends, and that opened up a world of possibilities Nick wanted, very much to explore. But was now the right moment? That was the question he couldn't seem to answer. Would it be best for him to leave now that dinner was over, not to press for too much too quickly? They'd already leap-frogged over several boundaries earlier in the evening, and he wasn't sure how much more he could ask for, just now when everything between them seemed tenuous and delicate.

"Here," Jen said suddenly, reaching across the table for his plate. Nick handed it to her, watched as she stacked their plates together and rose to her feet. He rushed to do the same, gathering up the wine glasses and the silverware and walking beside her to the sink.

"Can I help?" he asked, gesturing towards the pile of dirty dishes. He was well aware that Jen had no intention of washing up tonight, that she'd just leave it for tomorrow - or more likely Sunday, she never was in any hurry to clean anything - but it seemed as good an excuse as any to linger. If she wanted him to go she could beg off, tell him to leave it and bid him goodnight, but if she wanted him to stay -

"That would be great," she told him, smiling. It was as close to an invitation as he was going to get, and he knew it, so he smiled right back, and took the plates and the silverware and stacked them into the dishwasher while she began to wash the pots she'd used for cooking. There was something familiar about this, something easy, something that he had been missing for so long now, a sense of rightness in doing the simple, domestic tasks of daily life with a beautiful woman whose company he enjoyed. He couldn't wait to do it again.

It only took a moment to load the dishwasher, and by then Jen had finished scrubbing the first pot, so he took it from her dripping hands, wiped it dry with a nearby dishtowel. He ran his hands over the pot in silence, watched her standing there, bare feet, bare legs, the curve of her neck calling out to him, begging him for his kiss, thinking about what they'd said to one another, earlier in the evening.

_Sometimes I think I'd do anything just to be able to touch you again._

_Sometimes I think I'd let you._

Was this one of those times? Was she just waiting for him? Jen had already given up a lot of ground tonight, confessing her fears about work, telling him that she thought he was worth the risk, giving him an excuse to stick around; maybe it was time for Nick to give something back.

Carefully he set the dried pot on the stove, and moved slowly to stand beside her. Jen didn't look at him, didn't say anything, but she leaned against him, just a little. That one gesture, small as it was, was enough for him; he was there, wanting her, and she knew it, and she was not backing away. He was suddenly, forcefully reminded of one evening they'd spent together in the Claybourne house, a delightfully silly evening that had led to a very memorable shag in the shower later on, and he couldn't stop himself.

He reached out, slipped his hand into the soapy water in the pot she was currently scrubbing, and quite deliberately splashed her.

Jen shrieked, a wonderful, decidedly undignified sound, but got her own back in an instant.

"You'll pay for that," she told him, and fast as lightning she splashed him herself, soaked the front of his t-shirt to match the water dripping down the front of her robe.

Laughing they both launched themselves at the sink, water flying back and forth between them, soap bubbles catching in her hair, puddles forming on the counter beside them. There was something wonderfully childish about it, something addictive about the way they always seemed to have _fun,_ together, about the way she made him smile, but they were both perhaps a bit too competitive. They jostled for prime position at the sink, but the floor was slick with soapy water, now, and Jen lost her footing for a moment, and fell hard against his chest. He caught her easily, his arm looping around her waist, holding her tight to him while she smiled up at him, bright and beautiful and in his arms, where she belonged. And he wanted, more than anything, to kiss her, and so he bowed his head, and then-

And then Jen, sneaky bugger that she was, dipped her hand into the pot once more and then reached for the back of his neck, sending rivers of now tepid water running from the nape of his neck down the back of his shirt. Nick could not have cared less.

"You don't play fair," he told her, leaning in close, his lips almost touching hers and yet not quite, just close enough to tease. Jen lifted her chin, but he held steady, refusing to give in just yet.

"Neither do you," she answered, her voice an unsteady whisper.

It was enough for him. Holding her close, both of them dripping wet, hearts racing, delighted with one another; he wanted to kiss her and there was no reason not to, and so he closed the space between them, and captured her lips with his own, swallowing the soft sound of her sigh as she melted against him, her fingers tangling in his hair, holding him close against her. It had been more than four years since the last time, and yet it felt to him almost as if no time had passed at all; she felt the same, warm and soft and pressed against him. She felt like coming home, felt like the most beautiful thing he'd ever encountered in his entire life. She smiled against his lips and he took the opportunity at once to press his luck, his tongue surging forward, and she let him, pressed herself that much closer to him and let him take her over.

His hands were steady as he reached for her hips, drew their bodies flush together and then pressed her back against the sink, never breaking their kiss, not for a moment. He could go without air for a minute or two; he could not be without Jen. Not now, not after this. Not after the pictures she'd sent him, those heady reminders of the beauty of her in all her technicolor glory, not after knowing that a bare two hours before she'd been naked in her bed with her hand between her legs, thinking of him. They had done that to one another, the very idea of falling together enough to make them lose all sense of decorum, and now that he was touching her, he never wanted to stop, wanted instead to see how far they might go, together.

Still holding her hips he shifted, slightly, let his thigh press between her legs, and she widened her stance and let him, let him push them both that much harder against the sink. She was leaning back, now, and he followed her, followed the graceful arch of her body even as she caught his bottom lip between her teeth, pulling him down with her. There could be no doubt, now, regarding her wants, her needs; she was grinding herself against his thigh and teasing him with that clever mouth of hers, and he would have laughed if he had not been on fire with need himself.

But they were both of them soaked from their little war there at the sink, and he was itching to see her, to feel her skin beneath his hands, and not that robe, soft and lovely as it might have been. Still kissing her, hungrily, messily, he reached between them, and caught the sodden tie of her robe in his hands, untying it quickly. Jen did not protest, did not reach out to stop him, only scraped her nails against the back of his neck and let him peel the sides of the robe away from her. Eager as he was to see her he pulled back from their kiss, rested his forehead against hers and opened his eyes, watched as his hands pulled the robe open, and damn near swore when he saw what lay beneath it.

She wore only that same pale lavender thong, all lace and hardly there at all, slung low over her hips and barely covering her. When he'd decided to come to see her, when he told her he was on his way, she'd been allowed enough time to dress properly, if she'd wanted to. He certainly had, had found a clean pair of trunks and slipped on a pair of jeans and a serviceable grey t-shirt. But Jen had done nothing of the sort; her breasts were bare and soft, her nipples sweetly pebbled from the water that had seeped through her robe, her belly flat and warm, the span of her hips enchanting, and she had done nothing at all to hide herself from him. All through dinner, while they'd been talking, she'd been sitting across the table from him all but naked, and she'd been wearing that same thong in the photograph, he realized; what if she hadn't taken it off, before? What if she'd slipped her hand beneath it while he talked her through touching herself, left it damp with her desire and made a choice not to switch it out for something else? Had she been sitting there, still wet and thinking of him, while they talked about work as if it were the most natural thing in the world?

 _Christ,_ that woman was going to be the death of him.

"Well?" she asked him a bit breathlessly.

"You are the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen," he growled, her teasing voice reminding him of the purpose at hand. Once more he ducked his head, sucked her lip between his teeth while his hands slid under that robe, tracing the shape of her body, remembering how it felt, the warmth of her beneath his palms. _I want to touch you,_ he'd told her, and now that he was he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to stop. His hands captured her breasts, felt the warm weight of them filling his palms, kneading her gently in time to her panting breaths, and beneath him Jen shuddered, and pressed herself that much harder against his thigh between her legs. If he'd opened his eyes he could have seen it, the way she sought some relief for herself, taking from him whatever she could get, whatever he was willing to give, and it occurred to him then that he simply did not have the patience to carry them off to bed. They'd never actually shagged in a proper bed, but there would be time enough for that particular first later; all he wanted was this, _her_ , right here, in the kitchen.

And it seemed to him that Jen's thoughts must have run much the same course, for while his hands were busy with her breasts her own reached behind him, caught hold of the sodden fabric of his t-shirt and tugged. For a moment they wrangled together, breathless laughter passing back and forth between them as Jen struggled to pull his shirt up and off him, and he refused to relinquish his hold on her breasts. She won, in the end, when he thought of how much sweeter it would be to feel the rush of her against his bare chest. Deftly Jen pulled his t-shirt over his head and tossed it away, and then he reached for her robe, caught it his hands and pulled it back. Her arms were caught in the movement, still trapped inside the sleeves, and for a moment Nick held her like that, her arms tangled behind her back, a wicked smile on her face. Slowly, teasingly, he bowed his head; she thought he meant to kiss her, and tried to meet him, but he bypassed her lips entirely, choosing instead to plant his kisses on the curve of her neck. This was something else he remembered, the way she'd whine and throw her head back when he kissed her there, but _oh,_ this was better than his memories, Jen all but naked, grinding against his thigh, so wet he could feel her through the fabric of his jeans, the soft sounds of want that left her lips while he held her arms bound behind her. It was in his mind to mark her, to leave her with a memory she could see and touch in the coming days, but at the last second he decided against it, knowing how much she'd hate having to try to hide it from their friends, and chose instead to trace the thin vein leaping along the side of her throat with his tongue.

" _Nick,"_ she gasped, her voice high and needy, and he grinned against her skin, reveling in her abandon. This was what he'd been thinking about, when he took himself in hand earlier in the day, but the reality of her was better than any fantasy. With one quick jerk he pulled the robe the rest of the way off her, and the moment her hands were free she was reaching for him, her fingertips slipping beneath the waistband of his jeans, pulling him in close, impossibly close.

"I want you," she told him, and there was no doubt in his mind that she did, for he could feel her want where she rested against his thigh, could see it in her eyes, could feel it building within his own heart and other places as well, his jeans unbearably tight now as his cock began to swell with need.

"Now?" he asked her. "Like this?"

He'd said the same words to her earlier in the night, and she was agreeing as readily now as she had done then.

"Right now," she gasped at him.

Nick needed no further instruction; he caught her hips once more in his hands, and lifted her bodily from the floor. Without the obstacle of her robe to impede her she wrapped her legs around his waist at once, her arms sliding round his neck, her face on a level with his, now, her eyes bright and full of warmth, and of the kind of affection that made his heart ache.

"You're wonderful," she told him softly. "I don't think I said that before."

As far as he was concerned she was pretty wonderful, too; he had never known anyone quite like her, anyone who recognized his quiet nature and didn't begrudge him for it, anyone who could look at his face and see his thoughts as plainly as she did, anyone as lovely, as brave, as brilliant as she was. The last few months, being back in Homicide, getting to know her again, seeing the way they once more fell into stride with one another, without question, without hesitation, the gravity of her radiance drawing him to her, closer and closer, had been the most wonderful, beautiful thing, but this was better still, and all the sweeter for everything that had gone before it.

 _I love you,_ he thought. Now might not be the best time to say such a thing to her, not now when she was naked in his arms for the first time in four years, when they'd only just decided to explore this thing between them. He didn't want to scare her, didn't want her to feel pressured by him in any way but he did love her, madly, desperately, more than he'd ever loved any woman before, or ever would again.

But Jen didn't always need the words, not from him. Her brow furrowed, slightly, as if she'd just been presented with a riddle to solve, and then she smiled as the answer came to her, reached out and cradled his cheek in her palm.

"I know, sweetheart," she whispered, and then she leaned in and kissed him again.

She knew. She knew that he loved her, even if she hadn't let him say the words, and that was enough for him, for now.

With her tongue in his mouth and a renewed sense of purpose in his heart Nick spun them around, and carried them both to the corner of the kitchen, and gently set Jen down on the countertop. Her legs were still locked tight around him, drawing him into her, but his hands were free to continue his exploration of her once more. And so he did, tracing his palms from the flare of her hips up along her sides, his thumbs brushing against the swell of her breasts, his fingertips dancing across her delicate collarbones until he held her neck in both hands, gently, keeping her in place while still he kissed her wildly, and she kissed him back, and his cock, now hard as marble beneath his jeans, ground against the place where she was hot and wet and ready for him. The tips of his fingers pressed against the line of her jaw, tilted her head back to get a better angle, and even as he sought to devour her Jen's hands slipped between them, popping open the button of his jeans before tugging the zip down. In the process though her hands brushed against the swell of his cock and Nick's whole body shuddered with need.

"Get these off," she told him, tearing herself from their kiss with a gasp while she tugged ineffectually at his jeans.

"This, too," he answered, letting his fingers slide beneath the scant lace of her thong.

"God, yes," she gasped, and they laughed together, each of them taking their own garments in hand. As quickly as he could Nick shucked his trousers and his trunks, and Jen did a shimmying little dance on the countertop, sliding that scrap of lace out from between her legs and tossing it carelessly across the kitchen. The sight of her like that, beautiful and naked sitting on the counter, eager for him, the crisp curls between her legs wet with want of him, tore a strangled groan from his lips, but Jen just laughed, and held her arms out to him.

Nick stepped up to her at once, but he had no sooner slipped his hand between her thighs than her own hand curled around his aching cock. With her legs spread wide and her hips canted to meet him Jen welcomed the touch of his hand, pressed her lips against his shoulder and pumped his cock slowly, slowly, while a stream of curses left his lips and his fingertips traced the shape of her swollen folds. Ordinarily Nick wasn't much of a talker in bed, but they weren't in a bed, just now, and there was nothing ordinary about Jen, about the way she touched him, the way he felt when he touched her. Remembering the thoughts that had consumed him while he lay in his own bed, reading her messages and imagining her drawing pleasure from her own hand Nick slipped two fingers slowly inside her, curled them hard against her and ground his palm against her clit, and it was Jen's turn to shudder, her grip on his cock tightening as pleasure coursed through her.

"God, Nick," she whined, and he grinned, relieved to know that he could still touch in her a way that left her breathless. It was in his mind to ask her what she wanted, to tease her, to see if she would tell him in explicit detail exactly what it was she needed, but he never got the chance; a few short thrusts of his fingers was all it took to have her reaching for his wrist, still his movements at once.

"Enough," she gasped when he looked at her curiously, wondering what she was thinking. "I don't want your hand, Nick."

As if to emphasize her point she squeezed his cock once, and Nick got the message, loud and clear.

"I don't want yours, either," he told her, grinning.

They moved together; Nick caught her lean thighs in his hands, lifted her legs to once more lock around his hips, and Jen took hold of his cock with both hands, guiding him into her as slowly, slowly, he moved forward. The first brush of her wetness against the head of his cock left him reeling, aching and desperate for her, and she must have felt the same for she did not make them wait. With her heels digging into the firm muscle of his bum Jen drew him into her, and they both groaned together, their voices echoing off the kitchen tiles, their pleasure mingling as slowly, slowly he breached her, and drowned in the molten heat of her.

To ground himself, give himself something to hold onto and avoid hurting her, Nick planted his hands flat on the countertop either side of her hips, let his panting breaths paint the tender skin of her shoulder while his hips rocked into her. Jen moaned, low and sweet, and flung her arms around him, clung to him while they ground into one another, his cock sliding deeper and deeper into her with each pass until at last he was fully seated and he paused for a moment to soak in the delicious feeling of her fluttering around his length, clutching at him, her body soft and warm and welcoming.

"God, Nick," Jen gasped, burying her face in the crook of his neck while she shuddered in his arms. "I missed you."

"We missed each other," he panted in response. It wasn't like this with any other woman he'd ever been with, not like it was with Jen. Like something _right,_ like two pieces of a puzzle slotting into place, like she was made to hold him. Gently he moved, felt her sex clutching at him, felt the hot wet slide of his cock driving back into her, felt his tenuous hold on his self control slipping. There was a part of him that wanted to make this slow, to make it last, to rock her to her very core and keep going, but he had been so long without her, and she was _perfect,_ and he wasn't sure if-

"Don't be slow," she gasped at him, turning her nails into the skin of his back. "We can do slow later. I want you to fuck me now."

That was a request he had no intention of denying. He nipped at her shoulder, once, caught her skin between his teeth for just a moment, and then he moved, slipped his hands under her ass, holding her tightly, as tightly as he dared, holding her in place as once more he drew his hips back, and then rushed forward, hard and deep, and she mewled, and shivered, and begged him to do it again. Lost in the thrall of her Nick held her close and rocked his hips against her, harder, and faster, felt the heat and the friction building up between them, the wet slap of their bodies meeting echoing around the kitchen, Jen's ragged cries rising higher and higher in time to the surge of his hips. With his hands clenched tight around her ass he lifted her ever so slightly, so that each time he slammed into her he brought her down hard against him, increased the pace and the frenzy of their coupling while she clawed at him and gasped and fell to pieces in his arms. He couldn't stop the groans that tumbled from his lips, couldn't stop himself from staring down her lithe body to the place where he was driving inside her, watching his cock wet with her own need disappearing into her again, and again, and he felt his own release rushing towards him, inexorable, undeniable. They had agreed to this, stood at the edge of a cliff and jumped from it hand-in-hand, with eyes wide open, but they hadn't spared a thought for protection, and he didn't know what she wanted, when it came to that. Perhaps the movement of his hips stuttered as the worry occurred to him, for Jen bit him none too gently on the shoulder and his hips shot forward once more in response.

"I'm on the pill, don't you dare bloody stop," she gasped, and he grinned, relieved, and redoubled his efforts at once. Even now, even like this, she could read his mind. She always had done.

Once more the longing between them built to a fever pitch, and this time Nick let it; there was no reason to stop, now, and she'd told him not to, and he could deny her nothing. Again and again he surged within her, felt her clutching at him, felt the tension coiling tighter and tighter at the base of his spine, but what he wanted, more than anything, was to feel her fall apart while he was inside her, to feel the rush of her desire washing over him. He leaned forward, dropped her back against countertop and ground his hips against her with every powerful thrust of his cock and she flung her arms out behind her, let him watch the way her breasts bounced with the movement of their bodies, the muscles of her belly clenching with need, her thighs locked so tight around his hips he could hardly move. There was only her, the glorious blush that painted her skin, and he ducked his head, wrapped his lips around one of her pale nipples and sucked it hard into his mouth while he filled her with his cock and ground against her clit and finally, _finally_ she snapped.

Jen whined, high and needy, and her inner walls clutched at him, held him, refused to let him go, and he could feel the glorious wet rush of her release, could taste her skin beneath his lips, and he thrust into that bliss as hard as he could despite his limited range of motion. Jen reached for him with one hand, tangled her fingers in his hair and held his face against her breast while still he rutted against her, hungry and desperate and mindless with need.

"Come on," she gasped at him, her hips rocking beneath him. "Come on, sweetheart."

A strangled groan left him, and with a few last sputtering thrusts he spilled himself inside her, went slack and boneless in her arms with the kitchen counter beneath them holding them both steady while his need pulsed through him, burned through him with a righteous, white-hot fire and left behind it only his love of her.

Her touch was gentle, soothing, while he tried to catch his breath, his cock still nestled tight within her. Tenderly she raked her fingers through his sweat-slicked hair, cradled him close to her while he panted against her breast. In all his life Nick had never known anything as sweet, as beautiful as this, as them, together, as her, holding him, but even this moment of beauty could not last indefinitely. They'd made a mess of the kitchen, water splashed everywhere and their clothes strewn haphazardly across the floor, the pot still only half-washed in the sink, and they'd made a mess of each other, sweaty and bearing the marks of one another across their skin, and when he finally slipped out of her he could see his release smeared across her thighs.

"Take me to bed, Nick," Jen whispered into the stillness between them.

 _The bloody dishes can wait,_ he thought, and so he only smiled and once more caught hold of her bum, and lifted her easily, carried her across the kitchen and to her bedroom while she rested her cheek against his shoulder and held him, content.


	3. Chapter 3

_Sydney, five years earlier…_

The house lay all in darkness, and in the stillness there was no sign of movement, no creaking floorboards, no hushed whispers, just the sound of _her_ , breathing slowly and steady beside him. Nick breathed in time with her; _in, hold, out, hold, in, hold, out, hold_ , over and over, his hands clenched in fists down by his side.

The clock was ticking; Muhammad Hartono's days were numbered, this trip the final nail in the coffin SIS had built just for him, with help from Nick and his Trish. When tomorrow's deal was done and they all went back to Melbourne, the sharks would be circling. The next morning Nick and Trish would meet Hartono at the docks, and SIS would come in guns blazing, arresting everyone in sight, including Nick and Trish. It was all part of the plan; make sure Hartono never knew they were plants, make sure he thought the Claybournes were as dirty as he was, that they'd gone down just the same as him. If he thought they were in prison for helping him, he'd have no need to come looking for vengeance.

If they lived that long.

There was a chance, Nick knew, that Hartono was on to them. The business trip to Sydney had been a last minute proposition, and Hartono wasn't ordinarily a spontaneous sort of fella. The announcement of the last minute getaway had sent Adbul into fits. Away from their house, away from the cameras and the mics and SIS backup, Nick and Trish would be vulnerable, easier to lose track of, and easier to kill. It would be _easy,_ for Hartono to send a few of his men into this room, to murder Trish and Wesley Claybourne in their bed and then disappear forever. If he were onto them, Nick knew Hartono would want them dead; he always dealt with betrayal swiftly, mercilessly, thoroughly. And this was a betrayal like no other, lying about who they were and tracking his every movement and reporting it all back to SIS.

"Do you think they're coming?" Trish asked, very softly. They had grown rather adept at that; they'd known from the jump that their house was bugged, monitored 24/7 by SIS operatives. At first that hadn't bothered either of them too much; they didn't have anything to hide from the cameras or the mics. As the days turned into months, however, everything seemed to change. Trish, beautiful, brilliant, capable Trish, had wormed her way into his heart, become everything to him. They had secrets to whisper to one another in the stillness now, thoughts they longed to share but needed to hide from SIS. Their doubts, their fears, the silken threads of affection that bound them together; these things they had learned to share in voices so soft the microphones would never pick them up. There were no mics in this room - or at least, Nick didn't think there were, he'd done a sweep but anything was possible - but she still whispered, softly, and he answered her in kind.

"No," he said. It was after 2:00 a.m.; the party had broken up before midnight, and while he knew that Hartono would want to give them time to fall asleep before attacking them - if indeed attacking them was his goal - he rather thought the window for potential violence was rapidly closing. If Hartono meant to kill them, have his men dispose of them, and then disappear, he'd need _time;_ oh, murder only took a moment, but the cleanup was rather more labor intensive. _If they aren't here by 3:00,_ Nick thought, _they won't be coming at all._

"And even if they do, we'll be ready," he reminded her. To buy them some time he had dragged the heavy dresser in front of the door; Hartono's men wouldn't be able to open the door without a great deal of effort, and they'd make enough noise in the process to rouse Nick and Trish if by some miracle they fell asleep. He had also taken the time to open the window, letting a fresh breeze fill the room and providing he and Trish with an easy means of escape, should it come down to it. It was about a ten foot drop out the window; if they were careful, they'd make it easily, and from there they could run, fast and hard, hail a cab, get the hell out of dodge. Nick had laid down for bed wearing a pair of track pants with his wallet in the pocket, just in case. They'd thought of everything.

Hadn't they?

"I'm so sick of this," she whispered.

Nick was sick of it, too. Sick of the lying, and the fear, sick of the constant balancing act between what he wanted to, and what he was _allowed_ to do, sick of the weight of Wesley Claybourne sitting on his chest, slowly crushing every piece of him into dust. He hardly knew who he was, any more. He wasn't a Homicide detective who lived alone and went out with his mates on a Friday night, but had instead in some ways _become_ this man, a shipping magnate with a penchant for golf and a beautiful wife he loved more than anything. She was the only thing that made his life bearable, now, but in two days' time she'd be ripped away from him, and he'd never see her again. What would he have left, then?

"Run through it again," she said when he didn't answer her.

"If they come, we go to the window," Nick said. "I'll go down first. Once I'm down, you'll toss me the go bag, and I'll help you. We'll run east, away from the water. We'll hail a cab if we can find one. If we can't, we keep moving. There's a mobile in the bag, we'll ring SIS when we've got some distance between us and this place. Let them organize the pickup. If you get separated from me, and you don't have the bag, get to the internet cafe by the library, and ping Abdul. I'll meet you there."

It was the best they could do under the circumstances. They'd only had a day to get ready for this trip, to study the maps of the city SIS had procured for them and set up possible escape routes. Even in the dead of night, Hartono would be a fool to chase them into the part of the city; the risk of being discovered was too great. If they could just get away from the house, they stood a chance. Maybe.

"And what happens after that? What happens when we get home, and they pull the plug on us?"

 _What happens when I never see you again,_ that's what she was really asking. It was a question Nick didn't have the answer to.

"SIS will pick us up. They'll separate us for a debriefing. And then we'll go home."

Beside him Trish sighed, softly. Over the past year he had learned to identify every little sound she made, to interpret every sigh and every scoff and every chuckle, and he knew what this one meant. They should have been happy to go home, to put all this behind them, to get back to their real lives, but she wasn't, and neither was he, not really. Oh, it would be a relief to not spend every waking moment under observation of one sort or another, to not spend every second wondering if his life was in danger, to never play golf again. But he'd grown accustomed to the adrenaline, and the warmth of her beside him as he slept; would real life, _his_ life, seem boring and unfulfilling compared to this? Would he be happy, truly, to be home again?

"What's the first thing you'll do when you get home?" she asked. For a moment Nick tried to picture it, returning to his quiet little flat, to his little bed without Trish beside him. He'd asked Si to look in on the place from time to time, to make sure it didn't fall into disrepair; maybe that had been a bad idea. Simon wasn't the most dependable of his mates, but Nick knew he was the one who'd ask the least questions. _I should have asked Matt,_ he thought glumly.

"Take a shower," he said. When he thought about it, the debrief with SIS and then the long journey home, he imagined he'd be tired and grimy and ready for a rest. "Put fresh sheets on the bed. Sleep for a week."

Trish laughed; the plan was a bit dull, and he knew it, but he'd told her the truth, because he always did.

"What about you?"

"The same, I think," she said. "I just want to feel like no one's looking at me, for once. I just want to be alone."

They hadn't been alone, not once, from the moment they met until this one. Even when they were in the shower, or sleeping, they were close to one another, keenly aware of one another, with SIS listening, watching, always, and every time they stepped out of the house Nick experienced a crawling sensation down the back of his spine, as if he could feel dozens of pairs of eyes turning on him all at once. There were no eyes in here, in the guest bedroom of Hartono's Sydney house, this room where they lay side-by-side on their backs beneath a white duvet, their heads almost touching on the pillows, but still, they were not alone. They had each other; they always did.

"You'll get to see your cat again," he reminded her gently, casting about in search of a more cheerful thought. She'd told him about that, early on, that she'd had to leave her cat with a friend and that she missed him, wondered if he'd even remember her when she was finally able to reclaim him. _What if he doesn't want to come home with me?_ She'd asked him once. _What if he decides he's better off where he is?_ Nick had told her that he was certain her little cat would be ecstatic to see her, but the thought had festered; what if _Nick_ got home, and found that he missed this life, missed the way things were now? What if he no longer belonged in his own life?

"And you'll get to sleep without me hogging all the blankets," she said. Perhaps she'd meant the comment to sound lighthearted, but it fell flat; Nick thought he could be cold for the rest of his life and count himself a happy man, so long as she was still beside him.

It wasn't allowed, this thing between them, this steadily growing current of desire and fondness and whatever the bloody hell else it was that had pulled them both under. SIS had been painfully blunt, on that score - _you don't fuck us, and you don't fuck each other,_ Abdul had said. They weren't meant to tell one another anything personal, weren't meant to blur the lines, were meant to be professional, always. Their composure had snapped somewhere back around Christmas, and their dedication to maintaining boundaries had crumbled away into nothing. One desperate shag in the car after a terrible day had turned into a game of sorts, trying to find a moment to themselves, in the shower, in the car, tearing down the walls between them with trembling hands. Touching her brought him peace, when nothing else did; she was his only constant, his compass, the still point of a madly spinning world. They never compromised the operation, never snuck away to dark corners when they should have been working, but in the quiet moments, in the few precious minutes when they had nowhere to be and no one to please, they had one another.

Only he wouldn't have her much longer. He checked his watch in the darkness, saw it had just gone 3:00. The clock was ticking; the night was fading away, but so too was his last chance to hold her. No microphones, no cameras; he'd never get another chance to have her all to himself like this, for hours, without interruption or worry.

And so he turned to her then, rolled onto his side, and she did the same, and they met in the middle of the bed, facing one another. He raised his arm and she shimmied closer, let him wrap her in his embrace while she buried her face in the crook of his neck and her leg slipped between his, pulling him in close.

He knew, somehow, that she knew already what he was thinking, why he had reached for her, and she had not hesitated to draw near to him, to seek from him the same comfort he was trying to find in the warmth of her lithe body cradled against his own. Trish was just like that; she understood. She always did. With other women he was always having to explain himself, forced into endless conversations and a swirling mass of interpretations and petty little fights about nothing. Not with Trish, though. She didn't need the words; she already knew.

"I don't know what to do," she whispered, her lips brushing against his neck.

There was nothing to be done. They couldn't stop this train barrelling down the tracks, couldn't forestall the inevitable end of the operation, and the end of them with it. From the moment they met, they knew they were destined to part, to go their separate ways and never see one another again. _Star-crossed,_ that was the old phrase, two lovers who were not destined for a happy ending, whom fate itself had turned its will against. They were the same, he thought. They were fated only to end. There was nothing left to do now but wait. Wait for Hartono's goons to break down the door, wait for dawn and the drive back to Melbourne, wait for SIS to tear them apart.

 _Like hell,_ he thought.

"Tell me your name," he whispered. "Tell me your name, and I'll find you when this is through."

It was a desperate gamble. They could be told off for shagging, pulled off the operation, maybe, but if he willfully, wantonly disregarded the contract he had signed with SIS and tracked her down afterwards, they could well be brought up on charges. Oh, an accidental run in, maybe that could be excused, but if they ever found out Nick had done this thing deliberately, thumbed his nose at their carefully laid regulations, said _fuck national security_ and gone out in search of this woman, they could crucify him for it. If they wanted to, if it suited them. They could make sure he never worked in law enforcement again, end his career and bring his whole life to a screeching halt.

 _I could make it look like a coincidence,_ he told himself as he waited for her to answer him. He wasn't stupid; he knew he couldn't just turn up at her door the day after the operation ended. But if he laid low for a few months, maybe he could make it work. They could set up throwaway email addresses, arrange to meet in six months time, in a year, bump into each other in a coffee shop one day out of the blue. It could be done. But to what purpose? Would she still want to know him six months from now? A year from now? Would she get back to her own life and be so relieved that she'd choose instead to pretend it had all been a dream?

"I want to," she whispered, and he knew then that whatever she wanted she wouldn't give him what he'd asked for. It was her choice; he would respect it, even if he felt his heart breaking in his chest at the very idea of losing her. "But if I do they might come after us, and I can't take that risk. I can't let you take that risk."

"You're worth the risk," he told her earnestly. She was; she was the only thing he'd ever wanted more than his career. Just the thought of it was mad, though, and he knew it. It was the operation making him mental, making him clutch at things that weren't meant to be, making him search for meaning where there was none at all. Once the adrenaline had leached from his system, once he'd had a chance for a beer and a catch up with Duncan and Matt and all the rest, maybe he wouldn't think of her at all.

Trish laughed, a bit wetly, and kissed his neck gently just beneath his jawbone in a way that had him tightening his grip against her in a moment. She had insinuated herself so perfectly into the cage his arms and legs, had both her legs wrapped one of his thighs, now, and she was soft, and warm, and beautiful, and when he let his hand drift low down her back over the soft vest she wore he could feel the shifting of her delicate muscles beneath his fingertips in a way that made his heart race. As many times as they had fallen together now it had never been like _this,_ soft and warm in a bed, with several long hours stretching out before them, hours in which they could do whatever they liked, and the possibility inherent in such unexpected freedom was nearly enough to leave him breathless. Never before, and never again; this was the only chance he'd ever have.

And by God, he was going to make it count.

He caught her hips in his hands and began to turn her slowly, and she let him, unfolded herself from around him and laid back against the pillows, her blonde hair spilling all around her beautiful face, her lean thighs reaching up to clutch at his waist, holding him close against her while he rested his palms on the pillow by her head and looked down at her in wonder. Those bright sparkling eyes, those pale pink cheeks, those delicate lips; the beauty of her left him breathless. What would become of him, when she was no longer beside him? Would he ever find another woman he cared for as much as he cared for this one, a woman who understood him, sheltered him, made him feel whole? Would he spend the rest of his life chasing this feeling, or would it all fade into dreams, become no more than a memory?

"You won't forget me, will you?" she asked, reaching up to run her fingers through his hair in a tender gesture of affection that left him choking on regret.

"Never," he whispered, and then he bowed his head, let his lips hover just over hers, giving her the choice, letting her decide whether to accept him, or turn him away. The chances of their being attacked were growing smaller by the second, but the risk still remained; it was madness, to fall into one another instead of maintaining their watchful vigil, but he wanted her, longed for her, and he knew he would not ever have another chance to hold her like this. Not when they got back to Melbourne; not ever again. This was it; this was the end of all things.

After a moment Trish smiled in the darkness, and lifted her chin, just a little, just enough for her lips to brush against his, and he sighed, relieved, and pressed himself harder against her.

* * *

She knew what this was. He was scared; she could feel it in the tension of his muscles beneath her hands as they drifted down his back. But he wasn't scared of death so much, not anymore, and neither was she; the clock was ticking, but no one had come, and with each passing second she became more convinced that they wouldn't. They were safe in this place, Jen and her Wesley, protected, for however brief a time, from the darkness of the world beyond their bedroom door. In this cocoon of privacy they could do anything, say anything they wanted. What he wanted, she knew, was to know her name, to cling to some shred of hope that they might see one another again. And while she couldn't give him that, couldn't risk throwing both their lives away on the faint chance that this thing between them might survive once they returned to their real lives, she could give him _this,_ the weight of his body sinking into hers, the grasping of her thighs at his hips, the soft slide of his tongue against her own.

There were so many things she didn't know about this man, so many things she'd never get the chance to learn, but one thing she knew was that, when given the chance, he liked to take his time. Wesley was never in a hurry, and he was not easily distracted, and on those rare occasions when they had the luxury of time he liked to indulge himself in the little pleasures. Little pleasures like this one, kissing her long, and slow, pulling back just to see if she'd follow him, chasing after her when she did, one of his thighs sliding between her legs to give her the faintest hint of pleasure, a promise of things to come. His hands remained planted firmly by her head, but she touched him enough for both of them, her own hands roaming beneath his t-shirt, sliding over his skin and pulling him down into her while still he kissed her and desperation began to build between them.

 _This is it,_ the thought kept coming back to her. _This is the end._ In just a few days she'd be back in her little house, would collect Jerry from Lisa's and throw out a year's worth of old newspapers. She'd clean the place from top to bottom and make sure that no little creatures had made their home in hers, and she'd talk to her bosses at Fraud and see if they still had a place for her. She'd go back to work, eventually, to Friday nights at the pub with the girls and Saturday mornings jogging through the park and she would never, ever, see him again.

A sob welled up in the back of her throat at the thought, and she choked on his kiss, turned her head and tried to catch her breath. Wesley let his head hang low over her, his lips trailing gentle kisses against her neck while he gave her the chance to gather herself. No doubt he could see it, feel it, the way she was falling apart beneath him, but he didn't ask, didn't try to offer her any reassurance other than the warmth of him, wrapped around her. He was waiting, she knew, waiting for her to tell him what she needed, waiting the way he always did, never making demands of her, leaving the choice in her hands, always.

"I don't want to think any more," she whispered, her head still turned away from him. Jen just wanted it to _stop,_ the endless swirling of worry and regret, the breaking of her heart in her chest, the fear that filled her, fear that Hartono might still try to kill them, fear that SIS might botch the raid, fear that they might not and she'd lose Wesley anyway. It was too much; she couldn't bear it.

"All right," he whispered, his breath warm against her neck.

Did he understand? She wondered. Jen hardly understood herself, didn't know, really, what she was asking of him or how he might give it to her, but then he began to move, and she realized that he understood better than she could have dreamed.

Wesley rose up on his knees, there between her legs. Her eyes had long since adjusted to the darkness, and she could see him, his dark hair fluffy and mussed from the touch of her hands, his dear face serious and determined, his shoulders broad and strong enough to carry her through any calamity. Deftly he tugged his t-shirt up and off him, revealed to her the defined muscles of his chest, the faint smattering of dark hair that ran from his navel down beneath the waistband of his track pants, but she had only a moment to admire him for in the next breath he had tossed his shirt away, and reached for her. Without hesitation Jen lifted her arms above her head, let him slide her thin cotton vest away from her skin and toss it aside to join his t-shirt on the floor. The moment she was bare his hands sought out her skin, his palms sliding from her belly up, and up, and she arched her back, drew in one shaking breath as his hands settled over her breasts, kneading them gently while his eyes watched her, dark and inscrutable. Gentle was the last thing she wanted, right now, but before she had the chance to admonish him he tightened his grip upon her and surged forward, his strong hands clutching at her even as his lips descending on her neck, sucking hard at the sensitive skin just behind her ear.

Just like that, every worry, every doubt, every question seemed to fade from her mind; a desperate little sound tore from her lips as she pressed herself hard into the grip of his hands and wound her fingers through his hair, holding his head against her skin. Let him mark her, if he wished, with teeth and lips and desperate need; she could hide such a mark from SIS, and if Hartono saw it he would only smirk, and perhaps believe the lie of their marriage. It would take days for such a mark to fade, a reminder she could carry with her back to her life, a reminder of him.

Their limited experience with one another had been sufficient to teach him exactly what she liked, and he did not hesitate, his fingers plucking at her nipples until she shivered, until she could hardly catch her breath, while his mouth worked against her neck and she shifted restlessly beneath him. Perhaps he would have been content to simply tease her for hours, to build her up, higher, and higher, until she was nothing more than a mass of need and begging for him, but Jen had other things in mind. There was so little time; a few hours left until sunrise, and then the game would be on again, and they would be forced to leave this place, and she was through with waiting. Without hesitation, then, she reached for his left hand, and guided him down her body at once, pressed his fingers firmly against her sex above the thin shorts she wore and grinned when he swore against her neck. Wesley needed no further encouragement; he teased her through her shorts for a moment, fingertips pressing against her, tracing the shape of her folds through her clothes, coaxing out the first of her desire, but then he ducked his head, captured her neglected nipple with his lips and sucked hard at her while his hands reached for her shorts. Jen lifted her hips and let him pull of shorts and knickers both, let him guide her legs until she was bare and his hand was grinding against her sex without any barrier at all, his lips still fastened firmly to her breast.

"Yes, sweetheart," she sighed, flopping back against the bed, still winding her fingers through his hair. His hair was soft and thick and every time she touched him like that his eyes would flutter closed in bliss, and she wanted only to hold him, now, and make him happy, as happy as he had ever made her. But tension was building in her, his touch setting her nerves alight with need, and another whimper left her as one of his long fingers slid slowly, slowly into her tender heat and his mouth trailed kisses across the curve of her breast. Beneath him she rocked her hips, felt his palm grinding against her clit as his finger curled inside her, teasing out her wetness and drawing a curse from her lips, this time.

"More," she whispered, the pace of her hips increasing, and Wesley did exactly as she asked, joined a second finger to the first and thrust them into her with increasing fervor while her belly clenched with need. Skin-on-skin they ground together, pleasure coursing through her veins like electricity, the coil of need swirling tighter and tighter within her. The breath left her lungs on panting gasps, harsh and quiet in the darkness, and he made no sound at all save for the wet suction sound of his hand between her thighs, his mouth against her breast. Her skin would be scored with blotchy red marks come morning, and she loved him for it, for the need he felt to claim her, knowing she needed the same, just this once. Ordinarily she thought such behavior childish and possessive, but now, when they stood on the brink of losing one another, she understood what it was she was trying to tell her, and accepted it.

"Please," she gasped as her desire built to a fever pitch, his fingers hot and wet with her now and driving out her every thought save for him. She wanted to feel it, to feel him push her from the brink, to feel herself fall apart beneath his hands, and she wanted him to feel it, too, to know that he had done this thing for her. Seconds passed, minutes, a lifetime in which his breath blew hot against her flushed skin and sweat slicked the slide of their bodies against one another and his hand thrust within her, against her, found the place where she ached for him and made its home there. Jen could do nothing but whimper and lift her hips to meet the plunge of his hand, rocking in time to the rhythm he had set, seeking out the friction and the power and the heat of it, and then her lungs seemed to freeze, her soul hanging suspended on the very edge of bliss while her body moved feverishly, desperately in time to his, and her blunt nails scraped against the bare skin of his back and his teeth scraped over the tip of her nipple and _oh -_

 _Oh,_ she burst, a high, needy whine exploding out of her while her sex clenched down hard on his hand and her thighs tightened around his forearm, holding him in place while she trembled, and nearly wept with the relief of her release burning through her. She could not move, could only gasp for breath while she felt every muscle in her body fluttering, seizing, and then relaxing, weak as a kitten and relieved. It was exactly what she needed, for he had found the only possible means to stop the endless churning of her mind, but it was not _enough,_ for she knew, still, that this was their last chance, and that there was so much more he could give to her, and more she could give to him besides.

Still, though, Wesley was in no hurry; he lifted his head and licked the sweat from her neck while he kept his hand tight between her trembling thighs, teasing out the last of her desire and waiting, as always, for her. He was still wearing his track pants, and Jen knew that beneath them surely he must have been hard, now, and she wanted to feel it, the heat of him in her hand, the driving length of him inside her, wanted to feel him come apart for her, as she had done for him. Clumsily she reached for him, and he laughed, that gentle, easy laugh she so rarely heard from him.

"Here," he said, and caught her hand in his, his fingers sticky with her own need, painting her skin. "Here," he said, and dragged her hand beneath his track pants, let her curl her fingers over his rock-hard cock and groaned when she held him. So often he kept his thoughts, his needs, his wants to himself, did not speak more than was necessary, did not give into whatever emotion he felt, but she knew that when she touched him like this he would lose all restraint, and she would see him as no one else ever did; he would not hide from her.

"Yeah?" she asked, because her mind could hardly muster the energy to form a whole sentence. Instead she pumped his cock in her fist and felt him rutting into her grip, needing it, needing her, the way he never seemed to need anything. In moments like this he _belonged_ to her, and she felt closer to him, then, than she ever had to anyone else. As good as it felt, though, the slide of his cock against her palm, the desperate little groans that left him, she wanted more, wanted to see him, wanted to feel the length of him driving inside her, wanted them to come together and fall apart, as one.

"I want you inside me," she managed to gasp, and he shuddered above her, made desperate by the very idea.

From the moment they met she had seen that he was a big man, a strong man, taller and broader than she, but he had never used his size to intimidate her, or anyone else. Once he started talking people seemed to forget about the latent danger of the heavy muscles beneath his suits; it was hard to imagine that a man so quiet and so calm could be powerful. But he was, _oh,_ he was, and the thin veneer of his reserve snapped as she touched him. He rolled away from her and shucked off his track pants, and she heard the soft _thump_ of his wallet hitting the floor as he threw them away. But before she could appreciate the sight of his hard, heavy cock bobbing against the hairy muscles of his heavy thighs he caught her hips in his hands and lifted her, flipped her onto her belly as easily as if she weighed nothing at all. Knowing now what it was he wanted Jen fisted her hands in the sheets and lifted her ass towards him invitingly, and he was on her in a moment.

With those strong hands he caught hold of her ass, clutched at her hard, his fingers digging in almost hard enough to bruise. Almost, but not quite; he gave her as much of his strength as she needed, and never hurt her. While his hands maintained their firm grip on her ass he stretched himself out above her; she felt the head of his cock, weeping with want of her, settle between her thighs while he bowed his head and pressed a gentle kiss to the curve of her shoulder.

"I'll find you," he whispered, and Jen shuddered beneath him, not because of the words but because of the building desperation within her own heart, knowing how close he was, knowing what was to come, teetering on the brink of pleasure and yet not falling, not until he let her.

"Please," she whispered, rocking back against him, and in the moment she wasn't sure what it was she wanted more, for him to sink himself inside her then or for him to make good on his promise, and find her later. Maybe it was both.

He kissed her shoulder again, and then shifted behind her, encouraged her to draw her knees up under her, preparing them both for what was to come. At the sight of her swollen sex suddenly revealed to him he groaned, and she laughed, but that laugh turned into a whine of need in a moment as she felt the head of his cock slide slowly, slowly between her dripping folds.

"Tease," she gasped against the pillow when he hovered there, just barely resting inside her, forcing them both to linger on the precipice of bliss. She could _feel_ him, just there, could feel her body clutching at him, trying to draw him in deeper, trying to pull them both down into their pleasure but he was making her wait for it, breathing raggedly against her neck while she shuddered beneath him. Wesley laughed, no doubt enjoying the way she squirmed beneath him, and, nudging her hair aside with nose, he leaned in close to whisper in her ear.

"Just making sure you won't forget me, sweetheart," he whispered.

"Never," she panted out at him, and with that he began to move, suddenly, shockingly, drew his hips back and then slammed himself hard against her, his hands clutching her hips, holding her tight to him as again and again he plunged within her. When he held her like this, behind her, filling her, surrounding her, there was nothing for her to do but clutch at the bedsheets and rock against him, overwhelmed with the feeling of it. Maybe he'd made that choice on purpose, wanting her to get lost in the sensation of them together, and if he had he'd been right, after all, because nothing else in the world seemed to exist for her, save for him, and she knew then that no matter what happened next she would never forget this, _him,_ them, together.

 _God,_ but he meant everything to her. She lost herself in him, in the bruising grip of his hands at her hips, in the endless press of his cock inside her, filling her completely, the drag of him against her creating the kind of friction that made her whole body quake with longing. She arched her back, pressed herself hard against his chest, pressed her ass hard against the warmth of his skin, felt him driving into her even as he panted and gasped there by her shoulder. He moved, dropped his hands down beside her to hold him firmly in place above her, and on impulse she reached out, rearranged herself so that her hands covered his, their fingers interlocking as still he drove within her. Again, and again, as if he meant to take her like this for hours, and never stop, as if he meant to spend the rest of his life lost inside her, and _god,_ but she would let him, if he wished.

Where their hands were joined her knuckles had gone white from the strain of clutching at him, and each time he crashed into her a desperate little whimper tore from the back of her throat as she felt him stretch her, take her, overwhelm her. She could hear the wet slap of their bodies and the hitching sound of his breath close by her ear, quiet, the way he always was, powerful, the way he always was. She dropped her hips, changed the angle between them and drew a ragged cry from them both as the head of his cock hit that spot deep inside her that made her see stars.

"Fuck, Wesley," she gasped. The name felt wrong in her mouth, but she didn't know what else to call him, had no other name for him, and even as it passed her lips she felt her desire stumble, for a moment, as she wondered what he was really called, who he really was, who he would be when he wasn't with her.

"Nick," he panted back at her, "my name's Nick."

Earlier in the night he had asked for her name and she had not given it to him, too terrified of what might become of them if he was mad enough to track her down when their time with SIS was through. He hadn't pressed, or demanded it from her, or begged her to change her mind, had accepted her refusal graciously, the way he always did, but now he had given her _his_ name. This piece of him, to cherish, to hold, not enough to risk their futures but enough for her to know that he cared for her too much to let her go without her knowing his name.

"Nick," she gasped, and he slammed into her again, " _Nick."_

His name was Nick, and she loved him, and that was all the truth she had to cling to.

Onward he moved, heavy and intent, and she mewled and shivered and pressed her face into the pillow to keep from crying out too loudly as she felt herself begin to fall from the brink. It wasn't that she was worried about getting caught - in truth, if Hartono knew they were shagging it would probably only help strengthen their legends - but rather that she wanted to keep this secret, this moment of shared bliss, private, just between them. What was happening now, their hearts entwining as surely as their bodies were, was a precious gift she did not want to share with anyone else. The weight of him pressed her hard into the mattress and she could hardly breathe, but she didn't _care_ ; she never wanted it to stop. Never wanted him to stop moving, to stop the endless plunge of his cock into her molten heat, never wanted him to release the grip of his hands around hers, wanted to hear, always, the sound of his soft, yearning groan in her ear, but the needs of her body would not be ignored indefinitely, and nor would his. She knew him now, the sounds that he made, what they meant, and she could feel that he was close, too, close to coming undone.

And so she moved, dropped her shoulder and tugged on one of his hands, and once more their hands journeyed down her body, both of their fingers slipping messily against her clit, his breath warm and wet at the crook of her neck, and with each fervent thrust of his cock inside her she could feel him, and her, and their joining together, and it was enough, at last, enough. She broke, the sound of her voice muffled by the pillow, and he swore there close to her ear and thrust into her release like a man possessed, pounding into her until at last he found his own relief, and spilled himself inside her, trembling and sweaty and carried away by what they had just shared between them.

For a few minutes she rested there beneath him, his chest hard at her back, the fingers of their right hands still intertwined against the sheets, the fingers of their left still buried between her thighs, his slowly softening cock caught within her still trembling heat, their legs tangled together until she hardly knew which was which. She turned her head, tried to catch her breath, and he feathered kisses over what parts of her he could reach, her cheek, her eyelashes, the curve of her ear, and with every piece of her heart she wished they could stay like that, bound up in one another, always.

But such dreams were not meant to be; he pressed one final kiss to her shoulder, and then rolled away, caught hold of his t-shirt and used it to clean them both up a bit before tossing it aside. Jen rolled onto her back and he collapsed beside her, rested his head on her belly with one of his arms flung out over her hip. Idly Jen ran her fingers through his hair, and watched his eyes flutter closed, the way they always did when she touched him like this.

"I'm going to miss you, Nick," she told him. There were not words, she thought, to adequately describe how _much_ she would miss him, that ache like a cleaving, that grief for a man not dead, the lifetime of uncertainty that stretched out before her, endless years in which she would wonder whether any of this had ever been real, wonder where he was, wonder what might have been, if only. It would be a bereavement unlike any she had ever known.

Without opening his eyes he turned his head and kissed her stomach once, gently.

"I'll find you, sweetheart," he whispered, sounding already on the verge of sleep. There was only an hour or two left until Hartono would wake - damn the man, he never slept much later than 6:00, always had to be up and moving with the sun - and Jen wanted to spend every minute of that time just like this, holding him. It was all the time that they had left, her last chance to touch him as much as she wished, and she intended to savor every second of it.

"I know you will," she told him, letting her fingers drift through his hair, down his neck and back up again. There was no way he would, or ever could; she knew she would never see him again, but it was a beautiful dream, and she was not ready to let it go just yet.

"Sleep, Nick," she whispered, but his breathing was already deep and even, and so she lay, quietly, touching him, and thinking only how lovely he was, and how much it would wound her to be parted from him. Her Nick - Wesley no more, now that she knew his true name - had changed the course of her very life, and opened her heart to the kind of love she had never really believed in, before. Soon, very soon, she would have to let him go, but for now, these precious minutes, she held him; it was enough. It had to be enough.


	4. Chapter 4

Her arm hurt like hell and the streetlights were too bright; she leaned her head back against the passenger's seat of Nick's car and closed her eyes, tried to block out the sight of the city swimming sickeningly past the windows. The last few days were a blur of pain, and grief, and fear, and now that it was over she felt weak and weary, wanting only to rest. SIS had swept them up, again, taken them out of their quiet, comfortable lives and forced them into horror, and they had been powerless to resist, caught up in a swell of violence and terror.

 _I thought it'd be easier this time,_ Nick had quietly confessed to her. She'd thought the same thing, thought that now she knew _him,_ Nick and not Wesley, now that they shared so much, now that they were together, after a fashion, sharing the house with him would have been easier. But it was worse, so much worse; the operation had forced them into close proximity but the watchful eyes of SIS meant she could not reach for him when she wanted to, meant she had to choose her every word and gesture carefully, lest they be discovered. And it meant that she worried for him, now, more than she ever had done before. Before he had been a stranger and now he was her best friend, her partner, her lover, and knowing he was in danger had filled her with a new, unbearable sort of terror. The first time around she'd faced the possibility of violence, of disaster, with a level head, knowing it was all part of the job, knowing she and her mysterious Wesley had both been aware of the cost when they signed up. This time, though, forced into the work against their will, the prospect of losing him had kept her awake, staring at the ceiling with a sinking feeling in her heart. What would become of her, if she lost him now?

Of course, Nick hadn't been hurt, but _she_ had. The bullet had grazed her arm, sent her tumbling to the ground; her head ached and the deep laceration in her bicep made it impossible for her to grip anything, made her useless as the investigation raced towards its conclusion. She'd been forced to languish alone in the station, worrying about Nick, worrying about what might happen next, worrying about what this foray into madness might cost her, with no one there to comfort her. He'd come back to her with a bruise on his cheek and a haunted look in his eyes, but he was whole, still, and well, and driving her home.

 _This changes everything,_ she thought. For the last few months she and Nick had enjoyed their privacy, successfully navigated the dicey boundaries between personal and professional, spent more nights together than apart and yet never gave their friends any reason to suspect something was brewing between them. When they were already lying about their history it was easy enough to lie about this, too, and she'd started to feel as if maybe, just maybe, she could have it all, the man she loved, the job she loved, the team that supported her. It had been going so _well,_ but everyone knew, now. They knew that Nick and Jen had been lying for over a year, that they had hidden this piece of themselves. Would Allie and Matt and the rest be watching them closely in the coming days, searching for some indication of intimacy they'd previously missed? It wasn't just any job they'd done for SIS; they'd been playing the part of a married couple, had of necessity been closer to one another than any two coworkers had any right to be. Would people wonder, now, what else they were hiding? How much harder would it be to carry on as they had done before, now that a spotlight was shining directly on them, and their relationship?

Nick didn't speak as he pulled the car to a stop in front of his house, as he killed the ignition. But he looked across at her in the darkness, the streetlights reflecting off his warm, gentle eyes, and she could not help but reach for him with her good hand, laced their fingers together while still they sat in silence inside the car, unmoving. The warmth of his palm against her own was solid and steady as an anchor, reminding her that however mad the world might have become he remained, still, unwavering.

"It's cold," he said after a moment. "Come on."

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her skin once, and then he pulled away, stepped out of the car while she did the same. When they met together at the side of the car once more she reached for his hand, and once more he held her, walking slowly beside her as they meandered up the pavement and through his front door. It was a relief, stepping into his foyer, watching him close the door behind them and lock the world away. Inside his house they were safe, and alone, and she sighed again, collapsed against his chest as she dropped her laptop on the floor and he wrapped his arms around her.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, his breath ruffling her hair as he spoke.

With her face buried against his chest Jen just shook her head.

"Take me to bed," she told him, her voice muffled by his shirt.

He didn't need telling twice. They left their shoes by the door with her laptop, and walked hand-in-hand up the stairs, to his bedroom. Inside, she smiled to see his things, everything in its proper place, the dark navy duvet smooth and flat, the bed carefully made as always; even when he was Wesley, Nick had always been fastidious about making up the bed every morning. When she was on her own Jen never bothered, but she found she didn't mind the chore so much, when he was with her. Everything was easier, when Nick was there.

Carefully, in silence, he helped her undress. First he unwound the sling from around her body, and laid it gently on the bed while she cradled her wounded arm against her chest. Then slowly, gently, he unfastened the buttons of her blouse, taking care not to jostle her too much. His eyes were on his work, and so were hers, following the progress of his steady hands, seeing the way his brow furrowed as if some of the tension from the day still lingered inside him. When that was done they were faced with the painful task of peeling the shirt away from her skin; Jen hissed as Nick tugged the sleeve off her wounded arm, and by way of apology he leaned in close, and brushed a kiss against her bare shoulder, his lips soft and warm, the tender devotion of the gesture touching something within her heart. How gentle he could be, with her, this man who was broad and tall and strong, who hours before had come within inches of bashing a man to death for the crime of having hurt her. Those hands were deadly, but when he touched her she only felt healed, and safe.

The bra was next, and that was easier. The trousers she probably could have dispensed with on her own, but Nick had taken this task upon himself, and so she didn't stop him, just held her arm carefully against her bare breasts and laid her good hand on his shoulder, feeling the warm, solid strength of him through his thin shirt. She was exhausted, and everything was terrible, but watching Nick's broad hands so carefully unfastening the button of her trousers, pulling down the zip, watching his fingers catch in the waistband of her knickers and trousers both, feeling the warmth of him where he brushed against the bare skin of her hips, lit a fire low in her belly.

They had come so close to calamity, so close to losing everything, but he was here, now, and touching her. Every brush of his skin against hers, every gentle breath, every beat of her heart made her think how grateful she was, that they had come through their ordeal relatively unscathed, that they still had one another to cling to. The worries and the doubts and the questions would come, but not now, not tonight. Tonight she only wanted him to hold her, to touch her as she wished he could have done while they were in that damnable house, to remind her that they were safe. Nick was always so confident, so certain, and she wanted to steal a piece of that certainty for herself.

With his help Jen kicked her trousers away, and found herself suddenly, starkly naked in front of him. While he undressed her Nick had not pushed her, had not sought to incite her with the touch of his hands, had not tried to kiss her or brush against her breasts, had not done anything to indicate that sex was on his mind. He'd only wanted to help her, she knew, to shoulder some of the burden she carried and make sure she was comfortable, and would sleep easy. Now that she was bare she knew a shower was probably in order, but she didn't want to leave him, just yet, didn't want to walk away from this moment when he was watching her with grief in his eyes, and yet swallowing hard at the sight of her bare skin. Over the last few months they'd spent so many nights tangled up naked with one another that the sight of her bare body must be familiar to him, now, her nakedness itself not an invitation to more. But she wanted more, she realized then, wanted to invite his touch, wanted the heat and the hardness of him above her, around her, washing away the stink of the operation and the memory of Hartono's face.

But she only had one good hand, and she was tired, and so rather than undressing him herself she only leaned in close, and brushed her lips against his, once, softly. Nick followed her as she pulled away, seeking more, and Jen grinned against his lips, relived by the way he responded to her.

"Your turn, now," she told him.

"You gonna help me, sweetheart?" Nick asked her, his forehead pressed against hers, his breath sweet against her lips. Wesley had referred to Trish as _sweetheart_ constantly, in all manner of situations at all manner of times, but Nick did not often use the word for Jen. The endearment belonged to other people, their other selves, but hearing it now Jen only wanted to hear it again, for it was a word that meant love, and devotion, and she wanted those things from him, with him.

In answer to his question Jen shook her head and stepped away from him, went to the bed and stretched herself out there, nestling her head comfortably in the pile of his soft pillows. She'd be no good to him with one only hand, and her legs were tired of holding her; he had strength enough for both of them, she knew.

"Go on, then," she told him, grinning.

It felt lovely to smile, after the fear of the last few days. Nick had that effect on her; he liked to tease her, liked to make her laugh, and just being with him made her heart glad, made her feel as if maybe everything was going to be all right. No one was watching them now, here in his bedroom in his quiet, perfect little house, and they were rostered off work for the next few days, and all the questions and all their uncomfortable answers would wait. For now she was happy to be with him, she decided, and the touch of his hand had made her ache, and she wanted him to sate that ache, now, the way only he could, to take from her the fear and the doubt and replace it all with love.

For a moment Nick watched her, his eyes hungry now, and not sad. She knew that somewhere in his heart he must have been bothered by the way things had gone down with Abbott, by how close he'd come to losing his control - Allie, not understanding the significance of it, had told Jen that she'd caught him bashing Abbott's head on the ground, that they'd had to pull Nick off the man, and Jen knew they'd have to talk about it. Later, though, she told herself. They'd talk about it later, his rage and the danger it might present for them in the future, but not now, because now his dark eyes were watching her unblinking, taking in the sight of her pale skin naked against his navy duvet. Maybe he wanted to forget, too. Maybe he wanted to put aside the fear, and the rage, and be only grateful, as she was grateful, for this second chance they'd been given.

Though she had undressed him many times herself, though she had watched, more nights than she could count, as Nick slid out of his clothes and into bed beside her, it had never been quite like this, her naked, and waiting for him, and him on display for her. It excited her, more than a little, watching as he slowly picked at the knot of his own tie, his eyes trained on her. He liked what he saw, and she knew it; he had kissed and caressed and loved every single inch of her, and she knew he wanted her, longed for her, as much as she did him, and the knowing added a delicious layer of yearning to the waiting. She knew what would come after, but first this, Nick slipping his tie from his around his neck, letting it drop to the floor, Nick reaching for his shirt buttons while tension began to simmer and bubble between them.

He was, she thought, a beautiful man. He had a sweet soft face, a kind face, a good face; when she first met him she'd thought him bland, thought him inoffensive but not remarkable, thought no one would ever look at him twice, but now she knew better. Now she knew _him,_ and that face revealed to her his every thought, his every wish. Beneath that face he had a strong, thick neck she liked to pepper with kisses, and beneath that a set of broad shoulders, strong and steady enough to carry her through any calamity. He peeled himself out of his shirt slowly, watching her; when he looked at her could he see how deeply the vision of his body affected her, how badly she wanted him? If she hadn't been so tired she might have given him a show of her own, might have let her hands ghost over her body and watched him swallow against the rising tied of his own desire, but she had no strength for pretense or seduction. She only lay, still, her legs splayed out across his bed, her hair spilling across his white pillowcases, her arm cradled against her breasts, and watched him.

The vest he dispensed with much more quickly than his shirt, and she grinned when she saw the defined muscles of his chest, the sworls of dark hair around his flat nipples, the trail of hair that drew her eye from his navel down to the waistband of his trousers. Dark hair, tan skin, heavy muscles; he was perfect, she thought, and all the more perfect because he only ever used that strength to shelter her, and never hurt her. For most of her life Jen had no need of someone else's protection, had always stood on her own two feet and taken care of herself by herself, but there was something terribly comforting in the knowledge that she did not have to, if she did not want to.

The sound of his belt buckle softly thumping against the carpet echoed loud in the silence between them, and his eyes caught hers, and held there as he slowly unfastened his trousers, slid them off his hips. At least one weekend a month Nick played rugby with his mates, and he ran nearly every day, and the resultant heavy muscles of his thighs left hands itching to touch them, to reach out and trace every inch of him. Now dressed in only his trunks he paused, just for a moment, let her see the way his cock had begun to swell beneath the soft fabric, the silent evidence of his own growing need, and she let him see the way her eyes traveled over him hungrily, hoped that when he looked at her he saw her appreciation of him, hoped that it made him glad, to think how lucky they were, lucky that they both wanted one another, lucky that they'd found their way together.

The trunks hit the ground and he began to move, then, and Jen welcomed him, held out her good arm to him and caught him in the shelter of her thighs as he slowly stretched himself out above her. As always he was careful, mindful not to hurt her; he planted his hands on the pillows by her head, kept the weight of him away from her injured arm, but let his half-hard cock settle against her own soft folds. He bowed his head, brushed the tip of her nose with the tip of his own.

 _You know how I feel about you,_ he'd started to say that morning in the house. So many times he had come close, so very close, to telling her that he loved her, and yet each time she had stopped him. _Love_ , that frightened her; love was a disease for which there was no cure, a tumbling fall into uncertainty that could only end, to her mind, with a sudden, shocking, killing impact. He loved her, and she knew it, and she loved him the same, but saying the words felt like a commitment, somehow, felt like the first step on a journey she wasn't ready to take. If it was love, this thing between them, they could not carry on this fashion indefinitely. Nick's beautiful house had two empty bedrooms and a back garden surrounded by a tall fence he'd built himself, with room enough for a little swingset. Quiet possibility that seemed to linger in the empty spaces of his home like a breath held, waiting for something, and she feared that possibility, feared what it would mean for her, for her future, for them. Jen wasn't ready, yet, for _love,_ but she felt it, still, when he touched her.

"I missed you," she whispered then. _I missed you_ meant _I love you,_ and he knew it, and so did she, and so he smiled, and leaned in to kiss her. He knew what it meant, understood how she could have missed him when they'd spent most of the last few days entombed with one another. She'd missed _this_ , touching him, holding him, and she'd missed him during those terrible hours they were apart, when she was forced to watch him walking away from her wearing a bulletproof vest and a grim expression, when he'd left her to wonder if she'd spend the rest of her life missing him.

"I'm right here, sweetheart," he breathed into their kiss while her good hand drifted across his back, felt the smoothness of his skin and the hardness of muscle and bone beneath. He was here, and she was here, and they had survived, somehow, and that was enough, for now; it had to be enough.

And so she kissed him back, harder, fiercer, lifted her chin and pressed herself against him, slipped her tongue between his lips and smiled, even as he smiled, relieved to be close once again. Nick eased himself down onto her left side, kept his weight off her right to protect her, and slipped his hand between them, cupping her breast gently, not grasping or scratching or plucking at her, only holding her, as if the warmth of her cradled in his palm comforted him, as much as that gentle touch comforted her. His hand on her breast, over her heart, holding her; she sighed, and arched her back, just a little, pressed herself that much more firmly against him. It was beautiful, lying like this with him, holding him, feeling every inch of him pressed against every inch of her; she could have kissed him forever, for all the rest of her days, she thought, and then pushed that thought away. It was lovely, kissing him, touching him, but there was more she wanted, and she knew that his gentleness might just lull her into dreams, send them both to sleep unsated, and she didn't want that, not really. It was lovely, but she wanted to feel him, all of him, before she closed her eyes.

And so she pushed him gently away, rose up onto her knees and watched him flop beside her, easy, comfortable, the way he always was with her. One of his hands rose up, smoothed over the mess of her hair; a shower might have been more prudent than this, but there would be time enough for such concerns later.

 _I can't lose you,_ she thought, looking down at him, this beautiful man who meant everything to her, but to lose him she would first have to admit that she had claimed him, and both thoughts frightened her in their own ways, ways she did not want to face. So she leaned over him in silence, pressed a kiss against his chest while her hand found the generous muscle of his thigh, encouraged him to spread his legs so she could insinuate herself between them. Still his fingers brushed through her hair, his touch gentle and assuring, while her eyes raked over his body and her hand rested against the thick muscle of his thigh. What to do, she asked herself, in a moment like this, when both their hearts were ready but their bodies had not yet caught up? There was only one choice, really, and so she smiled at him, and knelt between his legs, caught his cock in her good hand, and almost laughed when he groaned. He was terribly predictable, she thought, for she knew just how to touch him, and she knew that when she did he would fling his head back on the pillows, close his eyes and swear, would tangle his hand more firmly in her hair, would turn to putty in her hands. It wasn't fair to laugh at him, though, and she knew it, because every time his hand slid between her thighs she reacted in exactly the same fashion, suddenly, entirely within his thrall. As nice as that thought was she didn't want that now, or not just yet; first she wanted _him._

And so very slowly she bowed her head, let her lips brush against the head of his cock while her hand pumped him slowly, feeling him harden against her grip.

" _Fuck,_ Jen," he gasped, and she grinned, licked a swirl around the very tip of him and lifted her gaze to find his eyes on her, full of heat and longing. There was power in this, holding him, knowing that he trusted her with all the most tender, most vulnerable pieces of himself, knowing that he saved his weakness for her, and did not show it to anyone else. With her hand and her mouth she worked over him, took him into the warmth and wet between her lips slowly, slowly, while his hips rocked idly beneath her and his cock hardened until it was ramrod straight and weeping for her. Still she carried on, pulled away from him with a gasp and followed the heavy vein that ran the length of him from the base of his shaft to the very tip, felt him shudder beneath her. She had long since grown accustomed to the taste of him, just as he had grown accustomed to hers, and the scent and the sound and the sensation of him made a familiar song, a melody she'd never grow tired of hearing.

But within her own body desire had begun to swell; he was beautiful, and hard, and _hers_ , and every time her eyes caught his she saw his need written all across his face, and shivered in expectation. It was nice, taking his thick, heavy cock into her mouth, knowing how much he enjoyed it, knowing that she was bringing him pleasure, but it would be a hell of a lot more than _nice_ to take him into herself, and she longed for it, desperately. He was ready, now, and she knew it, ready to take her any way she chose, but she was lagging behind, too focused on his pleasure to build up her own. If they were ever going to reach their bliss together, she'd need some attention, too.

And so, energized by the adrenaline of his naked body beneath her and his cock against her tongue she took her hand away from him, and let her inhibitions go, let him watch as she took him deeper into her mouth, as her hand snaked between her own legs, and felt no shame. Maybe that was the best thing about being with him, she thought, for she was never more herself than she was when they were together, and she never needed to hide from him, for he had never judged her, or mocked her, or questioned her, and he never would.

He swore again, watching her, and she struggled to catch her breath as her fingertips danced across her own folds, found the first of her desire and began to tease it out. Before he'd walked back into her life Jen had been alone for quite some time, and she had long since learned how to fulfill her own desires, knew exactly how to touch herself and bring about her own pleasure, what worked and what didn't. As her fingertips began to circle her clit slowly, slowly, she sighed around his cock, and Nick's hips bucked up hard against her. She looked up at him, and found in his eyes a wild sort of look she'd only rarely seen there before. Usually he was so controlled, so contained, so careful, but his heart was full of a great, quiet passion, and she wanted to see that passion unleashed, wanted to feel it, bathe in it, bask in it. So she worked herself harder, swallowed against the head of his cock, and felt them both tipping over the edge into madness.

The need to breathe overwhelmed her after a moment, and so she slid her lips up and off his cock with a gasp, pressed kisses against the hardness of him while still her fingertips vibrated against her clit and her belly clenched with need. The blunt edges of his fingernails scraped against her scalp, and every time she looked at him she found him gasping and watching her with hunger in his eyes, and _oh_ , she was close, very close, to the bliss she so desperately longed for. It might have been enough, she thought, to make herself come apart right there, caught in the cages of his thighs, to make him watch, and then with her lips and her own sticky hand pull him from the precipice, too, let him spill himself against her breasts, let them both find their abandon, sweaty and overcome. Just thinking of it left her wet and aching, but she had no sooner slipped her own finger between her dripping folds and sighed at the pleasure of it than Nick began to move.

"Wait," he gasped raggedly, and those strong hands reached for her, caught her just beneath her arms. "Wait."

She wanted to know what he had in mind, and so she lifted her mouth away from him, let him pull her towards him, let him arrange them to his liking. Nick sat up straight, his back propped against the headboard, and shifted his legs. His left splayed out, long and straight, but he bent his right, and helped Jen to sit up, too, until her back was resting against the solid muscle of his thigh. He was holding her, at an angle, his right leg behind her, her legs splayed out along his left. When she leaned to the left she pressed a kiss against his shoulder, let her head rest there against the solidness of him.

"Let me see," he said. "I want to see."

She understood, now; arranged like this she could lean against him, let him hold her steady, but he could see more clearly what she was doing when her hand disappeared between her thighs, and he could reach for his own cock with his left hand, stroke himself while he watched her, if he wanted to. She was surrounded by him, his body curving around her, and they could both _see._ Jen took a breath, trying to process his request and her body's response to it, her heart racing at the thought of him watching her doing such a thing, touching herself for his pleasure as much as for her own, and Nick used her momentary stillness as an excuse to lean in low, to brush his lips against the curve of her shoulder.

"Only if you want to, sweetheart," he whispered against her skin. His head still hung low by her shoulder and she turned her head, kissed his forehead sweetly, thinking how much she loved him. What a wonderful man he was, she thought, powerful enough to pick her up and move her wherever he pleased, passionate enough to ask this thing of her, but tender enough to leave the decision always, always, in her hands, never asking for more than she was willing to give.

"I want you to see," she told him, and they watched together as her left hand snaked once more down her body, her fingertips playing across her sex for both their benefit, now.

Behind her Nick drew in a ragged breath, and she matched it with a soft gasp of her own as she found herself hot and wet and ready for him. Slowly, teasing them both, she circled her fingertips round and round her clit, leaned back against his bent leg and canted her hips, allowing her easy access to herself. Nick leaned forward, looped his arm around her waist, his hand settling heavy and warm against her hip, and watched eagerly, breathlessly, as she slowly slid her middle finger into her own heat, her thumb still vibrating against her clit.

A soft, keening sort of sound left her; she supposed if he wanted to watch her then he wanted to hear her, too, and she let herself go, followed the rising tide of her own pleasure with her face still pressed hard to his shoulder. She panted against his skin, gasping; she wanted to watch, but she could not keep her eyes open against the pleasure of it. What did he see, when he looked down at her like this, wanton and willful, chasing her own release because he asked her to, because he wanted to watch? The thatch of dark curls between her legs, the increasing frenzy of her movements, the soft, panting gasps that left her; did it enthrall him, entrance him, leave him desperate for her, as she was for him?

"Do you remember," he whispered, his warm breath washing over her hair, "that night? When you were touching yourself like this, just for me?" A whimper left her, overcome as much by the memory as by his voice recounting it now; Nick was not much of a talker, in bed or out of it, and the frank, heady words he spoke shocked her and inflamed her in equal measure. "I couldn't stop thinking about you like this, so desperate for me you couldn't stop."

Any other time, any other man, she might have protested, might have bristled at the arrogance of the very idea of it, her needing anyone, but this was _Nick,_ and he was right; she needed him. But he needed her, too.

"I kept thinking," she whispered against his skin, sliding a second finger into her dripping heat and shuddering against him. "About you, wanting me."

Behind her eyelids she could see it, the photograph he'd sent to her, could remember the thrill that lanced through her when he told her he'd spilled himself against his sheets, because of her. She was not the only one who'd lost control, was not the only one who _yearned_ , and there was a blessed, blissfully symmetry in their need that made it something beautiful, rather than a source of shame.

Nick groaned, and reached for himself with his left hand; his cock was hard by her hip and she felt it, tilted her chin and opened her eyes, watched him close himself in his own fist. His need shot straight through the heart of her, left her rocking desperately against her hand, a steady stream of gasps passing her lips as he groaned. Watching him, watching her, hands working in tandem, the soft sound of her own fingers thrusting in and out of her wetness, the soft sound of his needy gasps; the room was redolent with them, a sanctuary for the pair of them, tucked away from the world. Sweat beaded on her brow and she licked it from his skin, both their hands sticky with need, now, his cock leaking with want of her, her own folds slippery with want of him; onward they went, circling higher and higher, preparing themselves for the freefall.

"I want to see you come apart for me," he growled. "And then I want to make you do it again."

So that was to be the way of it; before she could have him, fully, finally, he wanted this first, and she was more than happy to oblige him, trembling with expectation. She drove her fingers deep inside, curled up hard against the spot that always made stars explode behind her eyelids, vibrated her thumb against her clit and breathed him in, while still he pumped his cock in his fist, eager, ready. Desperation sank its teeth into her; she was close, so close she could hardly breathe, her whole body wound tight as a spring, poised to break free, if only, _if only_ she could push herself hard enough, high enough, and he wanted to _see_ , wanted to watch her shatter, and she wanted it, too, so much she could have wept. She had no control left over the sounds that left her, the rocking of her hips, could feel the slide of his leg against her sweat-slicked back, still holding firm despite the strain of it, but somehow, somehow it wasn't enough.

As if he sensed her growing frustration, as if he understood its cause, as if he could read her very mind, Nick shifted and joined his right hand to hers, let her focus on thrusting her fingers in and out of herself while he rubbed her clit quickly, furiously, matching the tempo of her gasps, and pushing, pushing, pushing, until at last, with a wail, she snapped, felt her inner muscles clamp down hard on her fingers while his shoulder muffled the sound of her cries.

And in the frenzy of her release the tears came, the last of her restraint broken; she wept and shuddered in his arms and he only held her, his hand covering hers where it rested against her sex, comforting her while she tumbled through her relief and her abandon. She had been so afraid, for days now, had been so bloody scared of losing him that she could not sleep, desperate to protect him, to keep him safe, to save this joy, this love, this peace they shared between them. If any one of a dozen moments had ended differently, she could have _lost_ him, and the knowledge had grown from a seed of doubt in her belly into a terrible twisting vine, constricting her lungs, choking her, damning her. She was afraid to love him, she was afraid to lose him, and she was beginning to suspect that she knew already which was worse.

"I'm right here, sweetheart," he reminded her gently.

"I want," she gasped, raggedly. "I want…"

What did she want? She wanted to hold him, always. She wanted to take his hand, and never fear. She wanted _them_ , safe, and whole, and she didn't want to sacrifice anything else in pursuit of that dream. She didn't want to be afraid, she wanted -

"I've got you," he whispered. He didn't need the words from her; he never did.

With his two strong hands he caught hold of her hips, and lifted her easily, and she moved with him, let him settle her upon his lap, her legs straddling his hips, his legs bent behind her, his cock caught against her dripping folds. When she was settled he reached for her, cradled her face in his hands, his dark eyes searching her face, looking for the answer to a question he couldn't bring himself to ask. The tears had stopped, for the moment, though she could feel them slipping down her cheeks, melding with the sweat of their exertions, painting her skin.

"Say it," she said, still panting for breath. She knew, she _knew_ , and she was afraid of it, but in this moment she needed to hear it.

"I love you, Jennifer," he said.

Her heart burst within her chest; he loved her, as she loved him, and the words had been spoken, their love let loose at last, and though she had no idea what would happen next she would not let uncertainty stop her. Not now, not tonight.

So she leaned in and kissed him, hard and messy, seeking to draw him into herself, and he met her with equal fervor, helped her rise above him, and in the next breath she sank down on him, drew his cock inside her as deep as it would go, and gasped into his kiss. _Oh,_ but he felt good; every time, every single time, he felt _good,_ felt right, felt like coming home, and when he held her like this, surrounded her like this, their faces on the same level, lips brushing as they moved, she could open her eyes, and look into his, and see the heart that loved her. She had never felt closer to any other living soul than she felt to Nick, and she had never felt closer to him than she did now, holding him. Her right arm pained her too much to move it, and so she kept it cradled against her chest, but she looped her left arm around his back, clung to him, and began to move, rocking, gently, gently, feeling the hot, hard slide of him inside her, felt her nerves sparking with every movement of their bodies.

They were restricted, like this; he would not pound up into her for fear of jostling her arm, and she could not find the leverage she needed with only one hand. They could only grind and twist and rock against one another, finding a rhythm that worked for them, slowly building up their desire once more. His hands smoothed her hair back from her face, and he smiled at her so sweetly she could have wept, were her tears not already spent. The affection, the _love_ in his gaze was nearly too much to bear. How could she have ever thought she could live without him? What would become of her, if she lost him now?

"I love you," she whispered. "I love you."

His lips found hers again, and in the meeting of them she found peace. His hands traced the slope of her back, down, and down, until he caught her bum in his hands, holding her, guiding her, and together they raced for release. The warmth of him, the taste of him, the sound of his needy groans, overwhelmed her, and she joined her voice to his, encouraging him, begging him, feeling the endless press of him inside her, deep inside, so deep as if he could have reached into her very heart, and held it safe. The drag of his cock against her already sensitive sex left her reeling, and she ground down into him, want sparking through her veins, and he held her, moved her, guided her through until her need reached a fever pitch, and this time she did not hesitate, only tumbled into bliss with his name on her lips.

He had what he'd wanted, now, had watched her come apart on her own hand and watched her come apart on his cock, and he let himself go, held her down hard against him, thrust up into her spasming sex until relief came for him, too, until he spilled himself inside her with a groan and at last they both were still.

She was still afraid. She was still afraid that she couldn't give him what he wanted, couldn't fill the empty spaces in his heart, in his house, without shattering her own spirit. She was still afraid that the revelation of their past would spell the end of their present, would unravel the private, beautiful world they'd built and lay them bare to be picked over by the vultures. She was still afraid that she could not have him and the job both, and she was still afraid that without the job she would cease to be herself. She was still afraid, but she could not deny that she loved him, now. For now, just for this moment, this breath, this one night, she clung to him, and he held her close, and she knew no harm would come to her, so long as he was near.


	5. Chapter 5

For a moment Jen stood staring up at his house, questioning just what the bloody hell she was thinking, turning up in the middle of the night after everything they'd been through. Everything she'd put them through. Maybe he'd think she was cruel; maybe he already had someone else inside, had already picked up the pieces of the heart she'd shattered, and moved on.

Jen didn't blame herself, not exactly. She'd sat with her decision for days, fed it on scraps of fear and questions about the future, nurtured it with the wisdom of experience and the rich fertilizer of heartbreaks past, and in the end it had grown from a niggle of doubt into the closest thing to certainty she knew she'd ever find. She loved Nick; she could not have him. Not like this, when they were forced to lie to their friends, when every night they spent together brought her closer to the disastrous loss of the life she'd worked so hard to build, when every time she looked at him she saw in his eyes the question he longed to ask her. She loved Nick, but he was hurtling towards _forever,_ to marriage and babies and a commitment to put _them_ above _her_ and she wasn't ready, yet, might not ever be ready, to sacrifice the dream of the life she could have had. It was too much, too fast; Nick would laugh and say it had been five years in the making, and surely that was enough time, but Jen knew better. They'd only been shagging for less than a year when SIS came calling, for only a few weeks after they took Hartono down, and she couldn't sacrifice Homicide, and her chance to see her name on the placard outside Waverly's office, and the little house that was _hers,_ and hers alone, for an uncertainty.

But she did love him, and he had offered to transfer, for her. In the moment she had been too terrified to let him talk her out of it, had worried that if she surrendered one single inch of ground she'd wake up months later trapped in a prison of her own making. Jen didn't want him to transfer, didn't want him to give up the most prestigious position a detective in the state police could ask for, not for her sake. She didn't want him to grow to resent her, to begin to wonder if she'd been worth it, after all, or if it had all been a huge mistake. Nothing could wound her so terribly as watching the love fade from Nick's eyes, seeing disgust there instead. Leaving him would be easier, she thought, than watching him slowly fade away.

Only now, now she wasn't so sure. Had she made a mistake, rushed into her decision too quickly; was there something else they could have done, some way they could have made it work, had their cake and eaten it, too? The last few weeks had proven that they could still work together, even after the disastrous end of their personal relationship; the work had not suffered, and no one had noticed a thing. No one noticed when they were shagging, and no one noticed when they weren't, and surely, she thought, that must work in their favor. What if they asked Wolfie outright, laid their cards on the table? The rule against fraternization wasn't hard and fast; exceptions had been made in the past, not many, but more than one. Maybe they could be an exception, too. Or maybe Nick could sit the Sergeant's exam - it was high time, she thought, Nick would make a better boss than Matt any day of the week - and move up, instead of just out. Or maybe she could; she loved Homicide, but if she was going to make Commander one day she couldn't be a detective forever. Jen wasn't ready for marriage and babies, wasn't ready to move in with him, even, but if they both made a choice to advance their careers, they'd be free to pursue each other, too, and maybe in a year, or two, or three, she could wear a ring without feeling it heavy as a chain on her hand. And if they never got that far, well, they'd still have the job.

That was the conversation they should have had that day in the car, she thought. Jen had been sitting with her decision for so long that it felt like a foregone conclusion to her, but Nick had been blindsided by it. Oh, he'd taken one look at her face and known what she was planning to say, to do, but he hadn't had a chance to marshall his arguments. If he had, then surely he wouldn't have so casually suggested marriage; surely if he had time to think he would have realized that was the worst possible thing he could have said to her, the nail in the coffin of their relationship. He wanted to get married, and she couldn't even hear the word without panic licking like fire down her spine. If they'd just had a little more _time,_ maybe they could have come up with a different answer. But Jen had felt time running out, and she'd done what she had to in order to save herself.

And she was certain, now, that a break was what she needed. She needed to see him pull himself up short when heartbreak made him cross, needed to see for herself that disappointment didn't turn him cruel or sour. She needed to see what it would be like, carrying on without him. What she'd discovered, over the last few weeks, was that while she could live without him, quite easily, she simply did not want to. Especially after her little chat with Waverly earlier in the evening, before the Women in Blue dinner. Waverly had sacrificed everything for her job, and while she found satisfaction in it there was a terrible sorrow that hung over her, a devastation that Jen feared might be contagious. What Jen knew now, what she had not known when she broke things off with Nick but what had been made abundantly clear to her over the last few weeks, was that she could not be content with him alone, but she likewise could not be content with the job alone. To be whole, to be at peace, to have the total happiness she longed for with all of her heart, she needed both.

It might be she'd come to that realization too late, but somehow Jen didn't think so. _I want you,_ he'd said with such earnest sincerity; when she closed her eyes she could still see his jaw working as he warred with himself, struggled to say the words. _This isn't a casual fling,_ he'd told her, and she had heard the words he could not say. _I love you,_ that's what he meant, but it was so hard for him to talk about his feelings, must have been twice as hard when she was in the process of breaking him in half. But he loved her, and she knew it, and somehow she didn't think it was the kind of love he'd bounce back from in a hurry. It just wasn't his way; he didn't go from woman to woman to woman, seeking satisfaction and nothing else. He was a patient man; he waited for what he wanted. Maybe he was waiting for her, too.

As if to prove the point a light flickered on by his front door, and in the next breath the door had opened, and Nick himself stepped out onto the porch. He was still wearing most of his suit from the day's work; he'd lost his jacket, but his tie still hung around his neck. Jen had been standing by her car debating with herself for a minute or two, and he must have heard her car pull up, must have looked out the window and seen her, must have decided to help her make the decision she was still struggling with. It was his nature to help, but not to push; he leaned in the doorway, looking out at her across the pavement, the door open behind him. An invitation, should she choose to accept it, but not a demand.

Jen took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and marched towards him, the heels of her outrageous shoes clicking softly as she went. Perhaps it wasn't the best idea, coming straight to his after the dinner, still wearing her tight satin dress, miles of leg on display, but her conversation with Waverly had been echoing through her mind all night, and she could not bear to wait a moment longer, terrified that if she slept on it she would lose her nerve, and lose her last best chance to make this right. As she drew near the door Nick stepped back, and she walked straight into his house, pausing in his foyer while he closed the door behind them.

"You want a drink?" he asked, leaning back against the door, away from her, watching her warily.

"Please," she said. A drink would help, would give them an excuse to stand together in his kitchen, give her something to do with her hands. Nick didn't answer, just pushed himself up off the door, and set off for the kitchen, Jen following along behind him. In the weeks since last she'd been here he'd made great strides with the reno; he'd laid new carpet in the sitting room, and the stonework around the fireplace was finally finished, though much of the furniture was still covered in plastic tarps, to protect it from sawdust and paint. The kitchen was the first room he'd completed, and Jen loved it. The appliances were sleek and modern, but the wood cabinets were warm, and the colors cheerful. In the morning the sun shone brightly through the windows, and made it her favorite room in the whole house.

Jen leaned against the bar while Nick pulled two bottles of beer from the fridge, twisted off the caps and tossed them in the bin before turning back to her. He held out a bottle, she accepted it, and then they drank in silence. It would be up to her to say something, and she knew it. That day in the car Nick had laid all his cards on the table, and she knew that he hadn't changed his mind; he wouldn't have let her in his home tonight if he didn't want her still, always. Jen was the one who'd had a change of heart, the one who had instigated this little _tête-à-tête;_ he was waiting for her. Again.

And so Jen took one very deep breath, and spoke.

"I've been thinking," she said. "About what happened, that day in the car."

Nick's eyes went dark and his jaw tightened, but he didn't speak. For now it seemed he was just waiting, willing to let her go first.

"I made this choice for us," she forced herself to continue. Christ, but this was awkward; she could hardly find the words to say, and her skin crawled uncomfortably. It made for an unwelcome change of pace; she'd never been uncomfortable around Nick before. But she felt vulnerable, exposed, forced to admit not only that she feared she'd made a mistake, but that she wanted him so badly she was willing to sacrifice her pride to ask him for a second chance. Jen had never liked to ask for anything, if she could help it.

"But I think maybe it's a choice we should have made together. I felt like we didn't have any other options, but now I think maybe that's not true."

"I meant what I said," he told her, the words coming out slow, carefully measured, like he was trying not to seem too hopeful, or too eager. Jen hoped that was a good sign. "I'll transfer, if that's what it takes."

Jen sighed, frustration rising like bile in the back of her throat. "That's not what I want," she said, a bit more sharply than she intended. "I don't want you to give up your job for me, and then hate me for it a year down the track."

"I wouldn't," he said, very softly. "I've left Homicide before, Jen, and I managed just fine. I can do it again."

"But I don't want you to. I want us to work together."

"Jen," he sighed, and she could hear that he was frustrated, too, and so she rushed to explain herself.

"I think we should talk to Wolfie." Nick's eyes widened in surprise; he hadn't been expecting that. Of the pair of them, she was the one who had always been most concerned with keeping their relationship a secret. Six months before, she would have rather died than tell Wolfie that she was shagging Nick. Things had changed.

"He might agree to give us a trial run," she said. "We could tell him what's happened, that this...thing between us didn't affect our work. He might let us both stay on."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then maybe it's time for one of us to sit the Sergeant's exam."

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and Jen's belly flooded with relief. They were going to be all right; she was certain of that, now, more certain than she had ever been before.

"If we do that, we wouldn't be able to stay on Homicide together," he pointed out, but he wasn't fighting her, wasn't trying to disabuse her of the notion. He was doing what they always did, what they did so well; working through the problem with her, looking at it from every angle, and she loved him for it.

"But our careers will keep moving forward. This won't be the end of us professionally."

"Is that what you were so worried about? You thought you'd never advance if people found out we were shagging?"

"It's one of the reasons I was worried," she allowed. "I'm not ready to get married, Nick. I'm not ready to have kids."

That was her biggest fear, truly, and she'd not let him know it, before, had used it as a secondary argument, too terrified to confess that while she loved him she hadn't been ready to give him her future. Work she could rationalize; she didn't know how to explain this fear to him without wounding him. He'd done nothing _wrong,_ exactly, had been the sort of partner most women dream about, kind and calm and considerate, always, a safe place to land, a quiet word to make her laugh, shouldering her burdens and never expecting her to carry him through. How could she explain that he'd been almost too perfect, that she'd been suffocating beneath the weight of his regard and the sense that he already had the rest of their lives planned out, down to the minute? How could she explain that he'd made her feel as if she'd never be able to match his quiet certainty?

"I know," he said, softly. "I shouldn't have pushed. We've both got to want it. And I don't blame you for not wanting it now."

Only Nick could have been so kind, so thoughtful, when the woman he wanted to marry told him she wasn't ready to wear his ring. Allie sometimes liked to laugh, liked to say that Nick was like a robot; he almost never raised his voice, almost never seemed to feel anything so deeply as the rest of them, but Jen knew better. She'd seen him rage, seen him weep, and she knew how much he could _feel_. He felt so much, and that was why he was so kind, she thought. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her.

"I'm not saying never," she told him quickly. "I think...I think one day we could be very happy, together."

She remembered very well what it was like being married to him, the quiet Saturday mornings at the shops and the fights over laundry and the takeaways on Friday nights, his body warm and quiet beside her as he slept. One day, maybe even one day soon, she might like that very much. But first she had to know, had to find out for herself, whether she could have him, openly, and her job as well, whether they could make this work long term, or if they had always been destined to crash and burn.

"You want to give it a trial run," he said knowingly, and she smiled, to see him read her thoughts so well.

"I think so, yeah."

"So we talk to Wolfie. If he says no, one of us sits the Sergeant's exam. Which one?"

That was a point Jen hadn't worked out quite yet. Advancement had never been a priority of Nick's, it stood to reason she ought to be the one to go for her stripes. But if she did, she'd have to leave homicide. Matt had taught her that lesson the hard way, and she had learned from his mistakes.

"I don't want to leave Homicide," she said slowly, more to herself than to him. "But I want to move up. A transfer was always in the cards. I hadn't counted on doing it now, but maybe...maybe now's the right time."

"You want to do it?" he asked her gently. He'd made no assumptions, knew already that her mind wasn't quite made up yet, and she loved him for that, too, for the way he gave her the space to be uncertain.

"I've never liked change," she told him wryly. "But if I'm going to get what I want, yeah. I think it has to be me."

"Wolfie might let us both stay on," Nick pointed out. "You may not have to move right away."

That was her Nick, always the optimist.

"Maybe not," she said. "But if he says no, at least we have a plan, now."

That made her feel better. The uncertainty had been eating away at her, but she and Nick had just rather neatly solved their problems, she thought. They could be together, and take their case to Wolfie. If he said no, they wouldn't be scrambling to put themselves back together; they had a way forward, now, where before there had only been darkness, and questions. With the matter of their jobs settled, then, there was nothing stopping them falling together. They could hold each other now, without fear or doubt.

"Just like that?" Nick asked, taking a swig of his beer. She knew what he was asking her; _are we all right, now? Can I kiss you now, if I want to? Is this all it takes to put us back together? And why the bloody hell couldn't we have had this conversation weeks ago?_

"I just needed some time to work through it," she said.

Nick shot her a knowing look; she'd taken time off work to devote to this problem before, and come up with a completely different answer.

"And next time," she said, drawing in a deep breath, "we can start by talking to each other. I made the decision, last time. We need to make these choices together."

And that, she knew, sounded rather a lot like marriage. It was all the commitment she could give him now, this promise that they would face the challenges before them united, that she would not pull away again. That promise felt more binding than any vow made in a church, and she rather thought he recognized it for what it was, because in the next breath he set his beer down on the countertop, and reached for her hand. She took hold of him gladly, their fingers twining together, palms pressed flush, the warmth of his skin an encouragement, a promise all its own.

"That's all I want, Jen," he said, softly. "I just want you to trust me."

"I do," she answered, her voice as low as his had been. "This means everything to me, Nick. _You_ mean everything to me. I trust you."

_With my heart, with my life._

Slowly, very slowly, Nick used the hand still holding hers to draw her to him, and Jen set her own beer down and let him pull her in, their arms winding round each other while she nestled her face into the crook of his neck.

"I love you," he whispered, his breath ruffling her hair, and she smiled, thinking of the first time he'd said those words to her, when they'd been naked and warm in his bed, when she'd been sitting on his lap, utterly surrounded by him, her heart broken and terrified in the wake of their operation with SIS, and then, as now, his love gave her strength, and peace.

"I love you, too," she told him, her words muffled against the soft skin of his neck.

* * *

The trip from his kitchen to his bedroom was easy, natural after everything that had come before it. They'd gone up the stairs, hand in hand, smiling like fools, too eager to reach their destination to spare a moment for lazy kisses. That all changed the minute his bedroom door closed behind them, however, for Nick caught her face in his hands, held her for just a moment, his eyes searching her face as if seeking permission. Jen smiled up at him, hopeful, and he grinned, and leaned in slowly, gave her the chance to meet him halfway, lifting herself up on her tiptoes as their lips brushed together once, softly. A second time, a third, and Jen's heart began to race, eager, now, for everything she'd been denied these last few weeks without him.

She opened her mouth to him and he groaned, let his hands slide down her back while his tongue slipped between her lips, and she just smiled, and held him tighter, let him take her over completely. This felt right, she thought; this felt like relief, after so much uncertainty. Nick's hands traced over the shape of her body beneath her dress, fingertips gliding along smooth satin, and Jen shivered, impatient, her skin prickling with need. She was ready to be out of that bloody dress and free from those bloody shoes, ready for him, just him, his body against hers without obstacles of any sort, free and comfortable together in the darkness. Nick's fingertips stuttered against the zip of her dress, and she seized the opportunity at once.

"Please," she gasped against his lips, reaching for his belt with her own hands.

Nick needed no further encouragement; he blindly tugged the zipper down, his kisses landing clumsily at the corner of her mouth while she worked his belt free. Quickly, hastily she tossed it aside, and Nick's hands dove between the parted folds of her dress, palms ghosting over the tender skin of her back, moving around to the front of her body while Jen shrugged her arms out of her sleeves. The dress gave way, slid down her hips to pool at her feet, and Jen kicked it aside, breathless, grinning up at Nick as he took in the sight of her in just her underthings and those impossible heels.

"Christ, you're gorgeous," he groaned.

Jen grinned and leaned in to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw, her hands returning at once to the button of his trousers.

"So are you," she whispered against his skin.

While she was busy with his trousers his hands gravitated, unsurprisingly, to the swell of her bum, kneading her flesh softly and drawing a little gasp from her lips. Nothing in the world felt as good as Nick's hands on her body, and having gone so long without him she was eager, now, for more of him, for all of him. With a push of her hands she sent his trousers tumbling to the floor, intent on reaching next for his tie, but Nick surprised her. With a sudden burst of strength he caught hold of her, lifted her bodily from the floor. Jen thought he meant to bring her to him, to hold her in his arms for a moment, but he did no such thing, just lifted her and then laid her gently out on bed.

What a sight he made, she thought, gasping as she lay back on his bed, looking up at him through hooded eyes. His trousers tangled round his feet, his shirt wrinkled at the end of a long day, his tie hanging half undone around his neck, his cock half-hard already and straining for her through the fabric of his soft grey trunks. She watched him, grinning, as he struggled to free himself from his trousers and his shoes, knowing that as much as she was enjoying the view of his powerful legs he must have been likewise enamored with the picture she presented, in her black lace and her stilettos, flushed and gasping on his bed. It occurred to her then that perhaps she could put on a bit of a show for him, but before she had a chance to move her hands he had dealt with his own trousers, and approached her at once, kneeling at the end of the bed and catching one of her feet in his hands.

Tenderly, reverently he pressed a kiss to the soft skin of her thigh, and then he carefully slid the shoe from her foot, his fingertips pressing against her, massaging her aching flesh tenderly. Jen reclined on her elbows, watching him, enjoying the sight of him kneeling between her legs and thinking fond thoughts of how she adored him. Slowly he moved to the other side, once more kissed her skin, once more reached for her foot, gently slipping off her shoe, tossing it aside.

"That's better," he said, pleased with himself.

"Come here," Jen answered, holding out her arms to him. She liked him like that, on his knees in front of her, but she liked holding him more, and she wanted to feel the weight of him against her, the slide of his skin across her own, wanted to peel the shirt from his back and run her hands along the broad plane of his chest.

Nick grinned, and raised himself up at once, his tie dragging delightfully across the tender skin of her belly as he stretched himself out across her, his hands landing heavy by her head, holding him up above her. Careful, always, he was careful with her, careful not to press down too hard against her, careful in the way he bowed his head, let his lips brush against her own, let his hips settle in the cradle of her thighs. Jen reached for him, caught his face in her hands, felt the prickle of stubble beginning to rise at the end of a long day scratchy against her palms, and pulled him to her for another, longer kiss, deeper than the last, her thighs clutching at him, drawing him closer. Everything about this, about them, about being with Nick, was beautiful and familiar and filled her with joy, but sometimes she rather thought she liked _this_ best, just holding him, kissing him, feeling him smile against her lips, heavy between her thighs, caught in a moment that was entirely, completely, about love, not a rush for release or the fevered grip of adrenaline but affection, as much about care as it was about want.

Still, though, he was mostly dressed, and Jen wanted him bare and beautiful beneath her hands, and so she let her palms ghost down over his cheeks, let her fingertips glide along the length of his jaw, until she could wrap her hands around the tie that still hung haphazardly around his neck.

"This has to go," she breathed against his lips, and Nick laughed, and rose up on his knees between her thighs.

He unfastened the tie himself, but as he slipped it free, running his hands along the length of it, his expression grew strangely serious, as if some thought had just occurred to him, something that perhaps he wanted to share but was afraid to speak aloud, and Jen quirked an eyebrow at him in response, wanting to know what was going through his mind, wanting to know what had made him look at her like that. As if he were half in love with her, and half afraid of her, all at the same time.

"Do you trust me, Jen?" he asked softly, quietly, his eyes dark and uncertain.

 _Oh,_ she thought, realization slowly sinking in. He was threading the tie through his hands, his fingers turning it over and over; whatever it was he wanted, that tie was almost certainly a part of it. Did he mean to bind her hands, or cover her eyes, or something else entirely? Did she mean to let him? For a moment she looked at him, trying to catch her breath, took in the breadth of his strong thighs, the tender skin of his neck exposed where his collar was unbuttoned, his sweet face, watching her so hopefully. _I just want you to trust me,_ he'd told her in the kitchen, and she had known what he meant, then, that he wanted her to confide in him, when she was uncertain, wanted her to run to him, and not away, wanted her to know that she was safe with him, always, that he would care for her heart as tenderly as she did herself. He was asking for that trust, now, asking her to put herself in his hands, to trust that he would treat her well, that whatever came next he would make certain she enjoyed it, as much as he did.

It seemed a monumental thing for him to ask of her, now. Now when she had confessed to the fear that gripped her at the thought of committing herself to him, of no longer being the sole arbiter of her own fate. There was always a certain amount of give and take, when they fell into bed together, a playful jostling between them, power and control passing from hand to hand as they gave to and took from one another. And he was asking her to set it aside, to let him take the lead between them, but somehow she knew he did not mean to do so indefinitely. He was not trying to assert himself over her, or change the rules of engagement; he was asking her to trust him now, this one time, so that he could show her that her trust was not misplaced, that he would, always, take care of her. He had left the decision up to her; she knew that he would, always, respect her choices, and give her only what she had asked for. Even now he was waiting, breathless, unwilling to continue until she had agreed.

"Yes," she said. _Yes,_ she trusted him, and _yes_ , she wanted to see what he might do, and _yes,_ her belly clenched with want at the thought of letting him have her, in whatever way he chose, knowing that he would, always, seek to bring her only pleasure, and never, ever hurt her.

Slowly, carefully, Nick knelt over her, and she followed the gentle urging of his hands, let him wrap that tie carefully around her eyes, the entire world plunged into near darkness in a moment. Near, but not entire; his tie was not made for this, and a bit of light snuck in around the edges of it, enough to keep the panic at bay while also blocking her view of him, and of the room. He fastened it securely at the back of her head, and then gently lowered her back down until she was resting once more on the softness of his bed.

"All right?" he asked, a bit nervous, a bit breathless.

"All right," she agreed.

It was better than all right; her heart had begun to race, and tension coiled within her, wondering what he might do, wondering how he might tease or tempt her, wondering what he thought when he looked at her this, half-naked and utterly at his mercy. She had thought that perhaps he might start to touch her at once, but he did no such thing; she lay, shivering, and his hands did not come for her. Without the aid of sight she relied on her ears, listened closing to the soft rustling sounds of him removing his shirt, felt the dip and sway of the bed beneath her as he removed his trunks, too. She felt the smallest sting of disappointment at that, for she would have liked to watch him strip himself bare for her, would have liked to run her hands along the hard muscles of his body. Blindly she reached for him, but her hand found only the curve of his shoulder.

Nick laughed, and caught her hand in both of his, lifted it away from his skin and pressed a sweet kiss to the center of her palm.

"This is about you," he told her quietly.

"I want to touch you," she told him truthfully; if this was to be about her, he ought to know what it was she wanted.

"Later," he promised, and then he caught hold of both of her wrists, pressed her hands back down against the mattress, silently requesting that she keep them there. For the moment Jen decided to do as he asked; she was dreadfully curious, and she knew that _he_ knew her well enough not to expect her to be completely passive during this encounter. But he had asked for her trust, and so she gave it to him, and twisted her fingers in his bedsheets rather than reach for him again.

For the space of several heartbeats the room was still and silent, and Nick kept his hands to himself, left her hanging, suspended in a moment of excitement and need. _What is he waiting for?_ She asked herself. What further sign could he need of her commitment, her compliance, her enthusiastic willingness to follow where he led? Perhaps a gentle nudge in the right direction would not go amiss, she thought, and so she grinned, and slowly spread her legs, arched her back in a gentle stretch as if seeking to make herself more comfortable, when all she sought was to entice him. There was no groan from him, no sound of movement in response, and she hated that she couldn't bloody _see_ him; had his eyes gone wide with want, the way they always did when he looked at her like this? Had he taken himself in hand, watching her? She hoped not; if he'd done that, she'd much prefer to see it.

She felt the movement of his body in the sagging of the mattress beneath her, and in the next breath he'd pressed a single, gentle kiss to her belly, his touch fleeting, and gone again in a moment. Behind the blindfold her eyes fluttered closed; there was no sense in keeping them open, anyway, when she couldn't see him, and her whole body seemed to hum with electricity, sparks flying along her skin at his proximity. Though he still refused to touch her she could _feel_ him hovering above her, the weight and the warmth of him, delicious in its promise.

The brush of his fingertips at her hips heralded his next move; his skin glanced against hers, warm and soft, and then he curled his hands around the waist of her knickers, and she lifted her hips to him obligingly, let him tug the knickers off her before she settled back down against the mattress. She grinned, reflexively, eagerly, thinking she knew what he meant to do, but his next touch surprised her, for he did not slide his hand between her legs. Instead the wet heat of his mouth blazed like fire across her breast over the thin lace of her bra, left her gasping in surprise and delight as she arched up towards him, eager for more.

But he was a tease, her Nick; the moment she lifted herself towards his seeking lips he vanished, left her pouting and frustrated. If only he would-

His fingertips trailed featherlight across her belly, and she shivered, anxious for more. Down and down his hands travelled, those hands, broad and strong, fierce in a fight and endlessly clever traced round her bellybutton, out to her hips, down her thighs. The muscles of her legs quivered, hopeful, but he took no note of her distress, remained unswayed by the way her legs fell open for him, by the way her body burned for him. His thumbs pressed behind her knees, trailed down her calves, and then the touch vanished once more, and she was left grinding her teeth in frustration.

"Nick," she groaned, hoarsely. She started to lift herself up onto her hands, thinking to move things along, but one broad palm settled in the center of her chest, gently urged her to settle back down.

"Take it easy, sweetheart," he whispered, and she gasped to hear his voice so close to her ear. She'd quite lost track of where he was, so distracted was she by the touch of his hands.

"Don't make me wait too long," she told him breathlessly.

Beside her Nick laughed, but he heeded her words; his hands fell heavy against her breasts, kneading her firmly, his thumbs catching against her nipples and drawing a little whimper from the back of her throat. It was nice, it was good, it was better than good, but would have been better still if only she were bare.

"Take it off," she gasped at him. Though she could not see him, though he'd made it plain that he wanted to be in control of the particular encounter, she could not cede herself to him fully, and she knew he'd never expect her to. No one had ever described her as passive, in bed or out of it. In answer to her breathless command Nick's mouth once more descended on her breast, sucking at her nipple, the scratch of the lace and the wet drag of his tongue drawing a moan from the depths of her chest. All thoughts of keeping her hands fisted in the sheets forgotten she reached for him, caught hold of his head and threaded her fingers through his hair, holding him tight to her breast, encouraging him to continue. Through the thin fabric of her bra she could almost feel the edge of his teeth, and her hips bucked up towards him, trying to find him, searching for some sort of relief. He did not move, did not settle his body between her grasping thighs or pull his lips away from her. Instead he caught her quite by surprise; one of his hands slid suddenly, sharply between her legs, and his fingertips at once zeroed in on her clit, pressing hard and fast against her, and she cried out then, taken off guard by the unexpected touch and hungry for more. She couldn't see anything but _he_ could; he could see the way her body arched towards him, could watch as his hand disappeared between her thighs, could see the flush that washed over her at his touch, while she lay beneath him, blind and yet demanding. Her nails scraped against his scalp and his teeth nipped at her through fine black lace and his hand strummed against her aching sex; _oh,_ but this was delicious, every sensation heightened by the darkness, her body left excited and overheated, wondering what he might do next. The yearning was building within her, want and need swirling tighter and tighter, the breath leaving her lungs in eager little pants. This was what she wanted, what she needed, Nick touching her, making her come undone, making her feel precious, wanted, loved, and she needed-

As suddenly as the touch of his hand had come it vanished, and the weight of him lifted off her, his head slipping away from the anxious grip of her hands. He was gone, had left her thrumming and unsatisfied right on the very edge of bliss, and she could not help but swear.

" _Fuck,_ Nick," she whined, and he laughed again, delighted by her frustration, but his voice was not as close as it had been before. Where had he gone? She reached out, searching for him, but her left hand glanced fecklessly off his hip and brushed it away, unwilling to let her draw him into her once more.

"Patience, sweetheart," he said, his tone light and teasing.

 _He's enjoying this too much,_ she thought crossly, but before she had the chance to tell him that she'd had quite enough of his teasing his mouth claimed hers in a heated kiss. Jen arched towards him, pressed herself hard against him, her tongue tangling with his own. The taste of him left her dizzy, left her hungry for more of him, and she reached for him once more, palms ghosting across his shoulders, but Nick had his plans, and would not be waylaid. Once more he caught hold of her wrists, once more pressed her hands against the mattress, and he pulled back from her, his lips now just out of reach. Jen strained to reach him, craned her neck and searched for him blindly, and he indulged her. One fleeting kiss and then he was gone again, and she grumbled, turned her head, trying to find him. A second kiss surprised her, and she grinned, delighted by this new game, and the third time her lips found hers she laughed aloud. While she was occupied with stealing kisses his strong arms wrapped around her, hauled her hard against his chest as his fingertips danced across her back, searching for the clasp of her bra. This was more like it, she thought; with the solidness of his chest at her front to ground her she could touch him more easily, and her hands wove between them at once, intent on finding his cock. Jen didn't need her eyes to find what she sought; she knew his body well, and followed the lines of him until she was able to wrap her hand firmly around his shaft, already rock-hard with want of her.

"I want you," she told him, her lips brushing his shoulder as she spoke. Though he stubbornly continued his efforts to unclasp her bra his movements were made clumsy by the distraction of her hand upon him, and she grinned, pressed open-mouthed kisses to the warm skin of his shoulder while she pumped his cock slowly in her fist.

"Soon," he told her, and then he managed to pull her bra free at last. She was forced to release her hold on him so that he might remove it, and he took advantage of this sudden opportunity and rolled her suddenly, strong arms turning her over on her belly. Jen sighed as her cheek pressed against his pillow, relieved; surely, she thought, he'd had enough of teasing. In the hope that it might encourage him she lifted her bum to him invitingly, but he didn't take the bait. Instead he caught her hands in his, stretched her arms above her head and held them there while he bowed his head, and left a string of soft, sweet kisses along the line of her shoulders.

This felt more familiar; even without the blindfold she wouldn't have been able to see him like this, and it would hardly be the first time he'd taken her from behind. For her part Jen was quite keen to repeat the experience. She could feel his body tense, could feel the way his muscles strained and his fingers tightened against hers as he moved, settled his body over her back. When he lowered himself down upon her she could feel his cock settle between her legs and she moved at once, widened her thighs and held herself up for him, waiting to see what he might do. He groaned, just a little, and changed the angle between them so that his cock settled against her glossy folds. That was what she'd been waiting for, the chance to finally _feel_ him, and Jen ground herself against him, painted the thickness of his shaft with her own desire and shivered at the feeling of him, hot hard, thick and heavy, pressed against her in such an intimate way.

"Patience," Nick told her again, and then he released her hands, and some of the weight of him lifted off her. As if she might be able to see him Jen opened her eyes, but found only the darkness of the blindfold, and groaned, petulant.

"I'm getting bloody tired of- _oh,"_ her admonishment turned into a sigh as his heavy hands settled against her bum, massaging her firmly. He knew just how to touch her, and the heavy grip of his hands on her ass and the heavy weight of his cock between her thighs left her breathless. Seeking some relief from the sudden onslaught of desire that threatened to drown her Jen shifted her hips, thinking she might entice him to slip inside her, might take him in of her own accord, but Nick's restraint was stronger than hers, and he rolled away from her, left her wet and wanting without the warmth of him behind her.

"Nick," she gasped, a warning in her tone.

In answer he trailed his fingertips gently down her spine, and she shivered at even that tender touch.

"I love you," he told her softly, seriously. "You know that, don't you?"

"Of course I do." Of course she knew; she'd always known. Though he was quiet, though he was calm, though he so rarely gave voice to his thoughts she had known for years now, because the love he bore for her was not demonstrated in words but in deeds, in his cautious, constant support of her, in his kindness, in the way he opened his arms and his door to her, always, without question.

He kissed the rise of her bum once, and she laughed, delighted and surprised by the gesture, but then he reached for her, rolled her over once again so that she was lying on her back. One of his hands slid between her legs, trailing softly against her glossy folds, and the other settled heavy at her breast, a comfort, a reassurance. Two of his clever fingers slid slowly, achingly slowly into her wetness, curling against her in a way that left her whimpering with need. She caught hold of his wrist, encouraged him to thrust his fingers deeper inside her, guided him to grind his palm against her clit until she was shivering, right on the verge of coming undone beneath him.

"Please," she gasped. She was tired of waiting, tired of games, tired of anticipation and teasing, tired of words. She just wanted-

The mattress sagged beneath her as he shifted atop her, stretched himself out along the length of her body. Once more his cock settled in the valley of her thighs, and once more she rocked against him, felt the slick slide of _them_ and lost her breath in hopeful anticipation. Once more his hands trailed featherlight over her body, her breasts, her belly, her hips, and then she felt the warm wash of his breath against her cheek as he bowed his head over hers. The fire that had been simmering inside her from the moment they stepped into his bedroom had roared into a blaze she could hardly contain; blindly she reached for him, wrapped her arms around his back and held him tight against her while still her hips worked against him, the friction between them leaving them both aching and ready, more than ready, to finish what they'd started.

"You're _mine_ ," she whispered fiercely, searching desperately for the words to tell him what he meant to her, the understanding that she had reached in this place, blind beneath his hands. "And I'm yours. It was always us, Nick."

They were meant to be, somehow, thrown together by tricks of fate time and time again until she could no longer deny that whatever the future held in store for he must, of necessity, be a part of it. She had chosen, and chosen him. They had laid their plans, and joined their lives to one another, and maybe she wasn't ready for marriage and babies but she could not hide from the truth of her own heart, and the truth was that she loved him, wholly, trusted him, completely, and the only life she wanted was one with him in it.

Nick's hands reached for her suddenly, and in a moment he pulled the blindfold away, and she was left blinking up at him in the sudden glow of his lamp, staring into his wide, warm eyes and seeing there all the love, all the affection she felt for him returned to her a hundredfold. Without hesitation Nick threw the tie away, and then he lowered his head and kissed her soundly, his tongue sliding past her lips even as the head of his cock slid slowly between her folds, and Jen shivered and clutched at him, held him tight in every way as they sank slowly into one another. All but vibrating with need she moaned into his mouth as his cock filled her, every hard, delicious inch of him plunging slowly, achingly slowly into her fluttering heat until at last he was as deep inside her as it was possible for him to be and they lingered for a moment, gasping and relieved and bound to one another.

But only for a moment; their need could not be denied indefinitely. Nick rocked gently against her and Jen met him, kissing him messily while her hands clutched at him, while her body swayed in time with his. Each languid thrust of his hips left her shivering, her whole body already keyed up and anxious from his merciless teasing, and as the pace of his movements increased she danced closer and closer to the edge of bliss.

"Please," she panted against his mouth, and Nick answered at once, raising himself up on his arms above her and thrusting harder, and harder still, his hips working against her wildly while she tried her best to match him, pulling him into her again, and again. She missed the closeness of his body, though, the warmth of him, and so she flung her arms out behind her, raised herself up, and he followed with her, both of them looking down to the place where they were joined, where his heavy cock, slick with both of them, plunged in and out of her, faster and faster, and she gasped, and he groaned, the pair of them laughing, sweating, overcome with the joy and the relief of finally, finally finding themselves right where they belonged.

 _Close,_ she was close, and as if sensing this Nick moved, suddenly, caught his fingers tight in her hair at the nape of her neck and drew her to him, kissed her hungrily, his teeth catching against her bottom lip, his tongue tangling with hers as still he rocked against her, and with every pass of his hips his body caught against her in a way that made stars sparkle behind her eyelids, and Jen gave herself over to it, to him, to the endless press of his cock inside her, and fell apart, a high, needy whine sliding past her lips as her whole body shattered, and Nick the only thing left to hold her together.

She collapsed back against the pillows, shivering, and he followed, panting against her neck as he thrust against her like a man possessed. The power of his body, the need and the heat and the strength of him, focused solely on her, left her reeling, and she tangled her fingers in his hair and held him against her as at last he found his own relief.

"I love you," she whispered as his thrusts turned messy and desperate, as he spilled himself inside her. "I love you, sweetheart."

Relieved, stated, he fell heavy against her, and she held him close, pressed a gentle kiss to his temple and ran her fingers through his hair. So as long as they were together they could find their way through any calamity, and the joy she found with him meant more to her than anything else she'd ever known. She loved him, and that was, she thought, the only thing that really mattered.


End file.
